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THE  END 
OF  HER  HONEYMOON 


BOOKS  BY  MRS.  BELLOC  LOWNDES 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


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The  End 
of  Her  Honeymoon 


By 
Mrs.  Belloc  Lowndes 

Author  of  "The  Uttermost  Farthing,"  "The  Chink  in  the 
Armour,"  etc.,  etc. 


New  York 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons 

1914 


Copyright,  1913,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


Published  September,  1913 

Reprinted  November,  1913 
April,  1914 


??■ 


THE  END 
OF  HER  HONEYMOON 


THE  END 
OF  HER  HONEYMOON 


CHAPTER  I 

"CocHER?  I'Hotel  Saint  Ange,  Rue  Saint  Ange!" 

The  voice  of  John  Dampier,  Nancy's  three-weeks 
bridegroom,  rang  out  strongly,  joyously,  on  this  the 
last  evening  of  their  honeymoon.  And  before  the 
lightly  hung  open  carriage  had  time  to  move,  Dampier 
added  something  quickly,  at  which  both  he  and  the 
driver  laughed  in  unison. 

Nancy  crept  nearer  to  her  husband.  It  was  tire- 
some that  she  knew  so  little  French. 

"I'm  telling  the  man  we're  not  in  any  hurry,  and 
that  he  can  take  us  round  by  the  Boulevards.  I 
won't  have  you  seeing  Paris  from  an  ugly  angle  the 
first  time — darling!" 

"But  Jack?  It's  nearly  midnight!  Surely  there'll 
be  nothing  to  see  on  the  Boulevards  now?" 

"Won't  there?  You  wait  and  see — Paris  never 
goes  to  sleep!" 

And  then — Nancy  remembered  it  long,  long  after- 
wards— something  very  odd  and  disconcerting  hap- 

3 


4        THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

pened  in  the  big  station  yard  of  the  Gare  de  Lyon. 
The  horse  stopped — stopped  dead.  If  it  hadn't  been 
that  the  bridegroom's  arm  enclosed  her  slender, 
romided  waist,  the  bride  might  have  been  thrown 
out. 

The  cabman  stood  up  in  his  seat  and  gave  his 
horse  a  vicious  blow  across  the  back. 

"Oh,  Jack!"  Nancy  shrank  and  hid  her  face  in 
her  husband's  arm.  "Don't  let  him  do  that!  I  can't 
bear  it!" 

Dampier  shouted  out  something  roughly,  angrily, 
and  the  man  jumped  off  the  box,  and  taking  hold  of 
the  rein  gave  it  a  sharp  pull.  He  led  his  unwilhng 
horse  through  the  big  iron  gates,  and  then  the  little 
open  carriage  rolled  on  smoothly. 

How  enchanting  to  be  driving  under  the  stars  in 
the  city  which  hails  in  every  artist — Jack  Dampier 
was  an  artist — a  beloved  son! 

In  the  clear  June  atmosphere,  under  the  great  arc- 
lamps  which  seemed  suspended  in  the  mild  lambent 
air,  the  branches  of  the  trees  lining  the  Boulevards 
showed  brightly,  delicately  green;  and  the  tints  of 
the  dresses  worn  by  the  women  walking  up  and  down 
outside  the  cafes  and  still  brilliantly  lighted  shops 
mingled  luminously,  as  on  a  magic  palette. 

Nancy  withdrew  herself  gently  from  her  husband's 
arm.  It  seemed  to  her  that  every  one  in  that  merry, 
slowly  moving  crowd  on  either  side  must  see  that  he 
was  holding  her  to  him.     She  was  a  shy,  sensitive 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON        5 

little  creature,  this  three-weeks-old  bride,  whose 
honeymoon  was  now  about  to  merge  into  happy 
every-day  life. 

Dampier  divined  something  of  what  she  was  feeling. 
He  put  out  his  hand  and  clasped  hers.  "Silly  sweet- 
heart," he  whispered.  "All  these  merry,  chattering 
people  are  far  too  fuU  of  themselves  to  be  thinking 
of  us!" 

As  she  made  no  answer,  bewildered,  a  little  op- 
pressed by  the  brilliance,  the  strangeness  of  every- 
thing about  them,  he  added  a  little  anxiously,  "Dar- 
ling, are  you  tired?  Would  you  rather  go  straight  to 
the  hotel?" 

But  pressing  closer  to  him,  Nancy  shook  her  head. 
"No,  no.  Jack!  I'm  not  a  bit  tired.  It  was  you 
who  were  tired  to-day,  not  I!" 

"I  didn't  feel  well  in  the  train,  'tis  true.  But  now 
that  I'm  in  Paris  I  could  stay  out  all  night!  I  sup- 
pose you've  never  read  George  Moore's  description 
of  this  very  drive  we're  taking,  Httle  girl?" 

And  again  Nancy  shook  her  head,  and  smiled  in 
the  darkness.  In  the  world  where  she  had  lived  her 
short  life,  in  the  comfortable,  unimaginative  world  in 
which  Nancy  Tremain,  the  dehghtfully  pretty,  fairly 
well-dowered,  orphan,  had  drifted  about  since  she 
had  been  "grown-up,"  no  one  had  ever  heard  of 
George  Moore. 

Strange,  even  in  some  ways  amazing,  their  mar- 
riage— hers  and  Jack  Dampier's — had  been!    He,  the 


6        THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

clever,  devil-may-care  artist,  unconventional  in  all  his 
ways,  very  much  a  Bohemian,  knowing  little  of  his 
native  country,  England,  for  he  had  hved  all  his 
youth  and  working  life  in  France — and  she,  in  every- 
thing, save  an  instinctive  love  of  beauty,  which, 
oddly  yet  naturally  enough,  only  betrayed  itself  in  her 
dress,  the  exact  opposite! 

A  commission  from  an  English  country  gentleman 
who  had  fancied  a  portrait  shown  by  Dampier  in 
the  Salon,  had  brought  the  artist,  rather  reluctantly, 
across  the  Channel,  and  an  accident — sometimes  it 
made  them  both  shiver  to  reahse  how  slight  an 
accident — had  led  to  their  first  and  decisive  meet- 
ing. 

Nancy  Tremain  had  been  brought  over  to  tea,  one 
cold,  snowy  afternoon,  at  the  house  where  Dampier 
was  painting.  She  had  been  dressed  all  in  grey,  and 
the  graceful  velvet  gown  and  furry  cap-Hke  toque 
had  made  her  look,  in  his  eyes,  like  an  exquisite 
Eighteenth  Century  pastel. 

One  glance — so  Dampier  had  often  since  assured  her 
and  she  never  grew  tired  of  hearing  it — had  been 
enough.  They  had  scarcely 'spoken  the  one  to  the 
other,  but  he  had  found  out  her  name,  and,  writing, 
cajoled  her  into  seeing  him  again.  Very  soon  he 
had  captured  her  in  the  good  old  way,  as  women — or 
so  men  like  to  think — prefer  to  be  wooed,  by  right  of 
conquest. 

There  had  been  no  one  to  say  them  nay,  no  one  to 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON        7 

comment  unkindly  over  so  strange  and  sudden  a 
betrothal.  On  the  contrary,  Nancy's  considerable 
circle  of  acquaintances  had  smilingly  approved. 

All  the  world  loves  a  masterful  lover,  and  Nancy 
Tremain  was  far  too  pretty,  far  too  singular  and 
charming,  to  become  engaged  in  the  course  of  nature 
to  some  commonplace  young  man.  This  big,  ugly, 
clever,  amusing  artist  was  just  the  contrast  which 
was  needed  for  romance. 

And  he  seemed  by  his  own  account  to  be  making  a 
very  good  income,  too!  Yet,  artists  being  such  eccen- 
tric, extravagant  fellows,  doubtless  Nancy's  modest 
little  fortune  would  come  in  useful — so  those  about 
them  argued  carelessly. 

Then  one  of  her  acquaintances,  a  thought  more 
good-natured  than  the  rest,  arranged  that  lovely, 
happy  Nancy  should  be  married  from  a  pleasant 
country  house,  in  a  dear  little  country  church.  Bra- 
ving superstition,  the  wedding  took  place  in  the  last 
week  of  May,  and  bride  and  bridegroom  had  gone 
to  Italy— though,  to  be  sure,  it  was  rather  late  for 
Italy — for  three  happy  weeks. 

Now  they  were  about  to  settle  down  in  Dampier's 
Paris  studio. 

Unluckily  it  was  an  Exhibition  Year,  one  of  those 
years,  that  is,  which,  hateful  as  they  may  be  to  your 
true  Parisian,  pour  steady  streams  of  gold  into  the 
pockets  of  fortunate  hotel  and  shop  keepers,  and 
which  bring  a  great  many  foreigners  to  Paris  who 


8        THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

otherwise  might  never  have  come.  Quite  a  number 
of  such  comfortable  English  folk  were  now  looking 
forward  to  going  and  seeing  Nancy  D  ampler  in  her 
new  home — of  which  the  very  address  was  quaint  and 
unusual,  for  Dampier's  studio  was  situated  Impasse 
des  Nonnes. 

They  were  now  speeding  under  and  across  the  vast 
embracing  shadow  of  the  Opera  House.  And  again 
Dampier  slipped  his  arm  round  his  young  wife.  It 
seemed  to  this  happy  man  as  if  Paris  to-night  had 
put  on  her  gala  dress  to  welcome  him,  devout  lover 
and  maker  of  beauty,  back  to  her  bosom. 

"Isn't  it  pleasant  to  think,"  he  whispered,  "that 
Paris  is  the  more  beautiful  because  you  now  are  in 
it  and  of  it,  Nancy?" 

And  Nancy  smiled,  well  pleased  at  the  fantastic 
compliment. 

She  pressed  more  closely  to  him. 

"I  wish — I  wish "  and  then  she  stopped,  for 

she  was  unselfish,  shy  of  expressing  her  wishes,  but 
that  made  Dampier  ever  the  more  eager  to  hear,  and, 
if  possible,  to  gratify  them. 

"What  is  it  that  you  wish,  dear  heart?"  he  asked. 

"I  wish.  Jack,  that  we  were  going  straight  home  to 
the  studio  now — instead  of  to  an  hotel." 

"We'll  get  in  very  soon,"  he  answered  quickly. 
"Beheve  me,  darhng,  you  wouldn't  like  going  in 
before  everything  is  ready  for  you.     Mere  Bideau  has 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON        9 

her  good  points,  but  she  could  never  make  the  place 
look  as  I  want  it  to  look  when  you  first  see  it.  I'll 
get  up  early  to-morrow  morning  and  go  and  see  to 
it  all.  I  wouldn't  for  the  world  you  saw  our  home 
as  it  must  look  now — the  poor  little  living  rooms 
dusty  and  shabby,  and  our  boxes  sitting  sadly  in 
the  middle  of  the  studio  itself!" 

They  had  sent  their  heavy  luggage  on  from  Eng- 
land, and  for  the  honeymoon  Nancy  had  contented 
herself  with  one  modest  little  trunk,  while  Dampier 
had  taken  the  large  portmanteau  which  had  been 
the  useful  wedding  present  of  the  new  friend  and 
patron  in  whose  house  he  had  first  seen  his  wife. 

Swiftly  they  shot  through  the  triple  arch  which 
leads  from  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  to  the  Carousel.  How 
splendid  and  solitary  was  the  vast  dimly-lit  space. 
''I  like  this,"  whispered  Nancy  dreamily,  gazing  up 
at  the  dark,  star-powdered  sky. 

And  then  Dampier  turned  and  caught  her,  this 
time  unresisting,  yielding  joyfully,  to  his  breast. 
"Nancy?"  he  murmured  thickly.  "Nancy?  I'm 
afraid!" 

"Afraid?"  she  repeated  wonderingly. 

"Yes,  horribly  afraid!  Pray,  my  pure  angel,  pray 
that  the  gods  may  indulge  their  cruel  sport  else- 
where.    I  haven't  always  been  happy,  Nancy." 

And  she  clung  to  him,  full  of  vague,  unsubstantial 
fears.  "Don't  talk  Uke  that,"  she  murmured.  "It 
— it  isn't  right  to  make  fun  of  such  things." 


1$ 


lo      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

"Make  fun?     Good  God!"  was  all  he  said. 

And  then  his  mood  changed.  They  were  now 
being  shaken  across  the  huge,  uneven  paving  stones 
of  the  quays,  and  so  on  to  a  bridge.  "I  never  really 
feel  at  home  in  Paris  till  I've  crossed  the  Seine,"  he 
cried  joyously.  "Cheer  up,  darling,  we  shall  soon 
be  at  the  Hotel  Saint  Ange!" 

"Have  you  ever  stayed  in  the  Hotel  Saint  Ange?" 
she  said,  with  a  touch  of  curiosity  in  her  voice. 

"I  used  to  know  a  fellow  who  lived  there,"  he  said 
carelessly.  "But  what  made  me  pick  it  out  was  the 
fact  that  it's  such  a  queer,  beautiful  old  house,  and 
with  a  delightful  garden.  Also  we  shall  meet  no 
English  there." 

"Don't  you  like  English  people?"  she  asked,  a 
little  protestingly. 

And  Dampier  laughed.  "I  like  them  everywhere 
but  in  Paris,"  he  said:  and  then,  "But  you  won't  be 
quite  lonely,  httle  lady,  for  a  good  many  Americans 
go  to  the  Hotel  Saint  Ange.  And  for  such  a  funny 
reason " 

"What  reason?" 

"It  was  there  that  Edgar  Allan  Poe  stayed  when 
he  was  in  Paris." 

Their  carriage  was  now  engaged  in  threading  nar- 
row, shadowed  thoroughfares  which  wound  through 
what  might  have  been  a  city  of  the  dead.  From 
midnight  till  cock-crow  old-world  Paris  sleeps,  and 
the  windows  of  the  high  houses  on  either  side  of  the 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON       ii 

deserted  streets  through  which  they  were  now  driving 
were  all  closely  shuttered. 

"Here  we  have  the  ceremonious,  the  well-bred, 
the  tactful  Paris  of  other  days,"  exclaimed  Dampier 
whimsically.  "This  Paris  understands  without  any 
words  that  what  we  now  want  is  to  be  quiet,  and  by 
ourselves,  Httle  girl!" 

A  gas  lamp,  burning  feebly  in  a  comer  wine  shop, 
lit  up  his  exultant  face  for  a  flashing  moment. 

"You  don't  look  well,  Jack,"  Nancy  said  suddenly. 
"It  was  awfully  hot  in  Lyons  this  morning " 

"We  stayed  just  a  thought  too  long  in  that  carpet 
warehouse,"  he  said  gaily, —  "And  then — and  then 
that  prayer  carpet,  which  might  have  belonged  to 
Ali  Baba  of  Ispahan,  has  made  me  feel  ill  with  envy 
ever  since!    But  joy!    Here  we  are  at  last!" 

After  emerging  into  a  square  of  which  one  side  was 
formed  by  an  old  Gothic  church,  they  had  engaged 
in  a  dark  and  narrow  street  the  further  end  of  which 
was  bastioned  by  one  of  the  flying  buttresses  of  the 
church  they  had  just  passed. 

The  cab  drew  up  with  a  jerk.  "Cest  id,  mon- 
sieur." 

The  man  had  drawn  up  before  a  broad  oak  porte 
cocker e  which,  sunk  far  back  into  a  thick  wall,  was 
now  inhospitably  shut. 

"They  go  to  bed  betimes  this  side  of  the  river!" 
exclaimed  Dampier  ruefully. 

Nancy  felt  a  little   troubled.    The  hotel  people 


12       THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

knew  they  were  coming,  for  Jack  had  written  from 
Marseilles:  it  was  odd  no  one  had  sat  up  for  them. 

But  their  driver  gave  the  wrought-iron  bell-handle 
a  mighty  pull,  and  after  what  seemed  to  the  two 
travellers  a  very  long  pause  the  great  doors  swung 
slowly  back  on  their  hinges,  while  a  hearty  voice 
called  out,  "C'est  vous,  Monsieur  Gerald?  Cest  vous, 
mademoiselle? '^ 

And  Dampier  shouted  back  in  French,  "It's  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Dampier.  Surely  you  expect  us?  I  wrote 
from  Marseilles  three  days  ago!" 

He  helped  his  wife  out  of  the  cab,  and  they  passed 
through  into  the  broad,  vaulted  passage  which  con- 
nected the  street  with  the  courtyard  of  the  hotel. 
By  the  dim  light  afforded  by  an  old-fashioned  hang- 
ing lamp  Nancy  Dampier  saw  that  three  people  had 
answered  the  bell ;  they  were  a  middle-aged  man  (evi- 
dently mine  host),  his  stout  better  half,  and  a  youth 
who  rubbed  his  eyes  as  if  sleepy,  and  who  stared  at 
the  newcomers  with  a  dull,  ruminating  stare. 

As  is  generally  the  case  in  a  French  hotel,  it  was 
Madame  who  took  command.  She  poured  forth  a 
torrent  of  eager,  excited  words,  and  at  last  Dampier 
turned  to  his  wife: — "They  got  my  letter,  but  of 
course  had  no  address  to  which  they  could  answer,  and 
— and  it's  rather  a  bore,  darhng — but  they  don't 
seem  to  have  any  rooms  vacant." 

But  even  as  he  spoke  the  fat,  cheerful-looking 
Frenchwoman  put  her  hand  on  the  young  English- 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      13 

man's  arm.  She  had  seen  the  smart-looking  box  of 
the  bride,  the  handsome  crocodile  skin  bag  of  the 
bridegroom,  and  again  she  burst  forth,  uttering  again 
and  again  the  word  "arranger." 

Dampier  turned  once  more,  this  time  much  re- 
lieved, to  his  wife:  "Madame  Poulain  (that's  her 
name,  it  seems)  thinks  she  can  manage  to  put  us  up 
all  right  to-night,  if  we  don't  mind  two  very  small 
rooms — unluckily  not  on  the  same  floor.  But  some 
people  are  going  away  to-morrow  and  then  she'll 
have  free  some  charming  rooms  overlooking  the  gar- 
den." 

He  took  a  ten-franc  piece  out  of  his  pocket  as  he 
spoke,  and  handed  it  to  the  gratified  cabman: — "It 
doesn't  seem  too  much  for  a  drive  through  fairy- 
land"— he  said  aside  to  his  wife. 

And  Nancy  nodded  contentedly.  It  pleased  her 
that  her  Jack  should  be  generous — the  more  that  she 
had  found  out  in  the  last  three  weeks  that  if  generous, 
he  was  by  no  means  a  spendthrift.  He  had  longed 
to  buy  a  couple  of  Persian  prayer  carpets  in  that 
queer  little  warehouse  where  a  French  friend  of  his 
had  taken  them  in  Lyons,  but  he  had  resisted  the 
temptation — nobly. 

Meanwhile  Madame  Poulain  was  talking,  talking, 
talking — emphasising  all  she  said  with  quick,  eager 
gestures. 

"They  are  going  to  put  you  in  their  own  daughter's 
room,  darling.    She's  luckily  away  just  now.    So  I 


14       THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

think  you  will  be  all  right.    I,  it  seems,  must  put  up 
with  a  garret!" 

"Oh,  must  you  be  far  away  from  me?"  she  asked 
a  little  plaintively. 

"Only  for  to-night,  only  till  to-morrow,  sweetheart." 

And  then  they  all  began  going  up  a  winding  stair- 
case which  started  flush  from  the  wall  to  the  left. 

First  came  Madame  Poulain,  carrying  a  candle, 
then  Monsieur  Poulain  with  his  new  English  clients, 
and_,  last  of  all,  the  loutish  lad  carrying  Nancy's  trunk. 
They  had  but  a  little  way  to  go  up  the  shallow 
slippery  stairs,  for  when  they  reached  the  first  tiny 
landing  Madame  Poulain  opened  a  curious,  narrow 
slit  of  a  door  which  seemed,  when  shut,  to  be  actually 
part  of  the  finely  panelled  walls. 

"Here's  my  daughter's  room,"  said  the  landlady 
proudly.     "It  is  very  comfortable  and  charming." 

"What  an  extraordinary  little  room!"  whispered 
Nancy. 

And  D  ampler,  looking  round  him  with  a  good  deal 
of  curiosity,  agreed. 

In  the  days  when  the  Hotel  Saint  Ange  belonged 
to  the  great  soldier  whose  name  it  still  bears,  this 
strange  Httle  apartment  had  surely  been,  so  the  Eng- 
lish artist  told  himself,  a  powdering  closet.  Even 
now  the  only  outside  light  and  air  came  from  a  small 
square  window  which  had  evidently  only  recently 
been  cut  through  the  thick  wall.  In  front  of  this 
aperture  fluttered  a  bright  pink  curtain. 


THE  END   OF  HER  HONEYMOON       15 

Covering  three  of  the  walls  as  well  as  the  low 
ceiling,  was  a  paper  simulating  white  satin  powdered 
with  rose-buds,  and  the  bed,  draped  with  virginal 
muslin  curtains,  was  a  child's  rather  than  a  woman's 
bed. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Dampier  suddenly.  "A 
cupboard?" 

He  had  noticed  that  wide  double  doors,  painted  in 
the  pale  brownish  grey  called  grisaille,  formed  the 
further  side  of  the  tiny  apartment. 

Madame  Poulain,  turning  a  key,  revealed  a  large 
roomy  space  now  fitted  up  as  a  cupboard.  "It's  a 
way  through  into  our  bedroom,  monsieur,"  she  said 
smihng.  "We  could  not  of  course  allow  our  daugh- 
ter to  be  far  from  ourselves." 

And  Dampier  nodded.  He  knew  the  ways  of 
French  people  and  sympathised  with  those  ways. 

He  stepped  up  into  the  cupboard,  curious  to  see 
if  this  too  had  been  a  powdering  closet,  and  if  that 
were  so  if  the  old  panelUng  and  ornamentation  had 
remained  in  their  original  condition. 

Thus  for  a  moment  was  Dampier  concealed  from 
those  in  the  room.  And  during  that  moment  there 
came  the  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  staircase,  followed 
by  the  sudden  appearance  on  the  landing  outside  the 
open  door  of  the  curious  little  apartment  of  two  tall 
figures — a  girl  in  a  lace  opera  cloak,  and  a  young  man 
in  evening  dress. 

Nancy  Dampier,  gazing  at  them,  a  little  surprised 


i6      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

at  the  abrupt  apparition,  told  herself  that  they  must 
be  brother  and  sister,  so  striking  was  their  resem- 
blance to  one  another. 

"We  found  the  parte  cochere  open,  Madame  Pou- 
lain,  so  we  just  came  straight  in.     Good  night!" 

The  young  lady  spoke  excellent  French,  but  as 
she  swept  on  up  the  staircase  out  of  sight  there  came 
a  quick  low  interchange  of  English  words  between 
herself  and  the  man  with  her. 

"Daisy?  Did  you  notice  that  beautiful  young 
woman?  A  regular  stunner!  She  must  be  that 
daughter  the  Poulains  are  always  talking  about." 

And  then  "Daisy's"  answer  floated  down.  "Yes, 
I  noticed  her — she  is  certainly  very  pretty.  But  do 
be  careful,  Gerald,  I  expect  she  knows  a  little  Eng- 
Hsh " 

D ampler  stepped  down  out  of  the  cupboard. 

"That  American  cub  ought  to  be  put  in  his  place!" 
he  muttered  heatedly. 

Nancy  turned  her  face  away  to  hide  a  Uttle  smile. 
Jack  was  so  funny!  He  delighted  in  her  beauty — 
he  was  always  telling  her  so,  and  yet  it  annoyed  him 
if  other  people  thought  her  pretty  too.  This  young 
American  had  looked  at  her  quite  pleasantly,  quite 
respectfully;  he  hadn't  meant  to  be  ofifensive — of 
that  Nancy  felt  sure. 

"I  suppose  you  have  a  good  many  Americans  this 
year?"  went  on  Dampier  in  French,  turning  to  Mon- 
sieur Poulain. 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON       17 

"No,  monsieur,  no.  Our  clientele  is  mostly  French. 
We  have  only  this  young  lady,  her  brother,  and  their 
father,  monsieur.  The  father  is  a  Senator  in  his  own 
country — Senator  Burton.  They  are  very  charm- 
ing people,  and  have  stayed  with  us  often  before. 
All  our  other  guests  are  French.  We  have  never 
had  such  a  splendid  season:  and  all  because  of  the 
Exhibition!" 

"I'm  glad  you  are  doing  well,"  said  Dampier  cour- 
teously. "But  for  my  part" — he  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders—"I'm  too  much  of  a  Parisian  to  like  the  Exhibi- 
tion." 

Then  he  turned  to  Nancy:  "Well,  you'll  be  quite 
safe,  my  darhng.  Monsieur  and  Madame  Poulain 
are  only  just  through  here,  so  you  needn't  feel  lonely." 

And  then  there  came  a  chorus  of  bonsoirs  from  host, 
from  hostess,  and  from  the  lad  who  now  stood  wait- 
ing with  the  Englishman's  large  portmanteau  hitched 
up  on  his  shoulder. 

Dampier  bent  and  kissed  his  wife  very  tenderly: 
then  he  followed  Monsieur  Poulain  and  the  latter's 
nephew  up  the  stairs,  while  Madame  Poulain  stayed 
behind  and  helped  Mrs.  Dampier  to  unpack  the  few 
things  she  required  for  the  night. 

And  Nancy,  though  she  felt  just  a  little  bewildered 
to  find  herself  alone  in  this  strange  house,  was  yet 
amused  and  cheered  by  the  older  woman's  lively 
chatter,  and  that  although  she  only  understood  one 
word  in  ten. 


i8       THE  END   OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

Madame  Poulain  talked  of  her  daughter,  Virginie, 
now  in  the  country  well  away  from  the  holiday  crowds 
brought  by  the  Exhibition,  and  also  of  her  nephew, 
Jules,  the  lad  who  had  carried  up  the  luggage,  and 
who  knew — so  Madame  Poulain  went  to  some  pains 
to  make  Nancy  understand — a  little  English. 

Late  though  it  was,  the  worthy  woman  did  not  seem 
in  any  hurry  to  go  away,  but  at  last  came  the  kindly 
words  which  even  Nancy,  slight  as  was  her  knowl- 
edge of  French,  understood:  ''Bonsoir,  madame. 
Dormez  bien." 


CHAPTER  II 

Nancy  Dampier  sat  up  in  bed. 

Through  the  curtain  covering  the  square  aperture 
in  the  wall  which  did  duty  for  a  window  the  strong 
morning  light  streamed  in,  casting  a  pink  glow  over 
the  peculiar  little  room. 

She  drew  the  pearl-circled  watch,  which  had  been 
one  of  Jack's  first  gifts  to  her,  from  under  the  big, 
square  pillow. 

It  was  already  half-past  nine.  How  very  tiresome 
and  strange  that  she  should  have  overslept  herself 
on  this,  her  first  morning  in  Paris!  And  yet — and 
yet  not  so  very  strange  after  all,  for  her  night  had 
been  curiously  and  disagreeably  disturbed. 

At  first  she  had  slept  the  deep,  dreamless  sleep  of 
happy  youth,  and  then,  in  a  moment,  she  had  sud- 
denly sat  up,  wide  awake. 

The  murmur  of  talking  had  roused  her — of  eager, 
low  talking  in  the  room  which  lay  the  other  side  of 
the  deep  cupboard.  When  the  murmur  had  at  last 
ceased  she  had  dozed  off,  only  to  be  waked  again 
by  the  sound  of  the  portc  cochere  swinging  back  on 
its  huge  hinges. 

It  was  evidently  quite  true — as  Jack  had  said— 
that  Paris  never  goes  to  sleep. 

19 


20      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

Jack  had  declared  he  would  get  up  and  go  over  to 
the  studio  early,  so  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
get  up,  and  wait  patiently  till  he  came  back.  Nancy 
knew  that  her  husband  wouldn't  like  her  to  venture 
out  into  the  streets  alone.  He  was  extraordinarily 
careful  of  her — careful  and  thoughtful  for  her  com- 
fort. 

What  an  angel  he  was — her  great  strong,  clever 
Jack! 

A  girl  who  goes  about  by  herself  as  much  as  Nancy 
Tremain  had  gone  about  alone  during  the  three 
years  which  had  elapsed  betwixt  her  leaving  school 
and  her  marriage,  obtains  a  considerable  knowledge 
of  men,  and  not  of  the  nicest  kind  of  men.  But  Jack 
was  an  angel — she  repeated  the  rather  absurdly  in- 
congruous word  to  herself  with  a  very  tender  feeling 
in  her  heart.  He  always  treated  her  not  only  as  if 
she  were  something  beautiful  and  rare,  but  something 
fragile,  to  be  respected  as  well  as  adored.  .  .  . 

He  had  left  her  so  little  during  the  last  three  weeks 
that  she  had  never  had  time  to  think  about  him  as 
she  was  thinking  of  him  now;  "counting  up  her 
mercies,"  as  an  old-fashioned  lady  she  had  known  as 
a  child  was  wont  to  advise  those  about  her  to  do. 

At  last  she  looked  round  her  for  a  bell.  No,  there 
was  nothing  of  the  sort  in  the  tiny  room.  But  Nancy 
Dampier  had  already  learned  to  do  without  all  sorts  of 
things  which  she  had  regarded  as  absolute  necessities 
of  life  when  she  was  Nancy  Tremain.     In  some  of  the 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      21 

humbler  Italian  inns  in  which  she  and  Jack  had  been 
so  happy,  the  people  had  never  even  heard  of  a  bell! 

She  jumped  out  of  bed,  put  on  her  pretty,  pale  blue 
dressing-gown — it  was  a  fancy  of  Jack's  that  she 
should  wear  a  great  deal  of  pale  blue  and  white — 
and  then  she  opened  the  door  a  Httle  way. 

"Madame!"  she  called  out  gaily.  "Madame  Pou- 
lain?"  and  wondered  whether  her  French  would  run 
to  the  words  "hot  water" — yes,  she  thought  it  would. 
"£aw  chatide" — that  was  hot  water. 

But  there  came  no  answering  cry,  and  again,  this 
time  rather  impatiently,  she  called  out,  "Madame 
Poulain?" 

And  then  the  shuffling  sounds  of  heavy  footsteps 
made  Nancy  shoot  back  from  the  open  door. 

"Yuss?"  muttered  a  hoarse  voice. 

This  surely  must  be  the  loutish-looking  youth  who, 
so  Nancy  suddenly  remembered,  knew  a  little  Eng- 
Ksh. 

"I  want  some  hot  water,"  she  called  out  through 
the  door.  "And  will  you  please  ask  your  aunt  to 
come  here  for  a  moment?  " 

"Yuss,"  he  said,  in  that  queer  hoarse  voice,  and 
shuffled  downstairs  again.  And  there  followed,  float- 
ing up  from  below,  one  of  those  quick,  gabbUng  inter- 
changes of  French  words  which  Nancy,  try  as  she 
might,  could  not  understand. 

She  got  into  bed  again.  Perhaps  after  all  it  would 
be  better  to  allow  them  to  bring  up  her  "little  break- 


22      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

fast"  in  the  foreign  fashion.  She  would  still  be  in 
plenty  of  time  for  Jack.  Once  in  the  studio  he  would 
be  in  no  hurry,  or  so  she  feared,  to  come  back — espe- 
cially if  on  his  way  out  he  had  opened  her  door  and 
seen  how  soundly  she  was  sleeping. 

She  waited  some  time,  and  then,  as  no  one  came, 
grew  what  she  so  seldom  was,  impatient  and  annoyed. 
What  an  odd  hotel,  and  what  dilatory,  disagree- 
able ways!  But  just  as  she  was  thinking  of  getting 
up  again  she  heard  a  hesitating  knock. 

It  was  Madame  Poulain,  and  suddenly  Nancy — 
though  unobservant  as  is  youth,  and  especially  happy 
youth — noticed  that  mine  hostess  looked  far  less  well 
in  the  daytime  than  by  candle-light. 

Madame  Poulain's  stout,  sallow  face  was  pale,  her 
cheeks  puffy;  there  were  rings  round  the  black  eyes 
which  had  sparkled  so  brightly  the  night  before. 
But  then  she  too  must  have  had  a  disturbed  night. 

In  her  halting  French  Mrs.  Dampier  explained  that 
she  would  like  coffee  and  rolls,  and  then  some  hot 
water. 

*'C'est  Men,  mademoiselle  I  ^^ 

And  Nancy  blushed  rosy-red.  "Mademoiselle?" 
How  odd  to  hear  herself  so  addressed!  But  Madame 
Poulain  did  not  give  her  time  to  say  anything,  even 
if  she  had  wished  to  do  so,  for,  before  Mrs.  Dampier 
could  speak  again,  the  hotel-keeper  had  shut  the  door 
and  gone  downstairs. 

And  then,  after  a  long,  long  wait,  far  longer  than 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON       23 

Nancy  had  ever  been  made  to  wait  in  any  of  the 
foreign  hotels  in  which  she  and  her  husband  had 
stayed  during  the  last  three  weeks,  Madame  Poulain 
reappeared,  bearing  a  tray  in  her  large,  powerful 
hands. 

She  put  the  tray  down  on  the  bed,  and  she  was 
already  making  her  way  quickly,  silently  to  the  door, 
when  Nancy  called  out  urgently,  "Madame?  Ma- 
dame Poulain!    Has  my  husband  gone  out!" 

And  then  she  checked  herself,  and  tried  to  convey 
the  same  question  in  her  difficult  French — "Mon 
mari?^'  she  said  haltingly.     "Mon  mari?" 

But  Madame  Poulain  only  shook  her  head,  and 
hurried  out  of  the  room,  leaving  the  young  EngUsh- 
woman  oddly  discomfited  and  surprised. 

It  was  evidently  true  what  Jack  had  said — that 
tiresome  Exhibition  had  turned  everything  in  Paris, 
especially  the  hotels,  topsy-turvy.  Madame  Pou- 
lain was  cross  and  tired,  run  off  her  feet,  maybe;  her 
manner,  too,  quite  different  now  from  what  it  had 
been  the  night  before. 

Nancy  Dampier  got  up  and  dressed.  She  put  on 
a  pale  blue  linen  gown  which  Jack  admired,  and  a 
blue  straw  hat  trimmed  with  grey  wings  which  Jack 
said  made  her  look  Hke  Mercury. 

She  told  herself  that  there  could  be  no  reason  why 
she  shouldn't  venture  out  of  her  room  and  go  down- 
stairs, where  there  must  surely  be  some  kind  of  pub- 
lic sitting-room. 


24      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

Suddenly  remembering  the  young  American's  in- 
terchange of  words  with  his  sister,  she  wondered, 
smiling  to  herself,  if  she  would  ever  see  them  again. 
How  cross  the  young  man's  idle  words  had  made 
Jack!  Dear,  jealous  Jack,  who  hated  it  so  when 
people  stared  at  her  as  foreigners  have  a  trick  of 
staring.  It  made  Nancy  happy  to  know  that  people 
thought  her  pretty,  nay  beautiful,  for  it  would  have 
been  dreadful  for  Jack,  an  artist,  to  marry  an  ugly 
woman.  .  .  . 

Locking  her  box  she  went  out  onto  the  shallow 
staircase,  down  the  few  steps  which  led  straight  under 
the  big  arch  of  the  porte  cochere.  It  was  thrown 
hospitably  open  on  to  the  narrow  street  now  full  of 
movement,  colour,  and  sound.  But  in  vivid  contrast 
to  the  moving  panorama  presented  by  the  busy,  lane- 
like thoroughfare  outside,  was  the  spacious,  stone- 
paved  courtyard  of  the  hotel,  made  gay  with  orange 
trees  in  huge  green  tubs.  Almost  opposite  the  porte 
cochere  was  another  arch  through  which  she  could 
see  a  glimpse  of  the  cool,  shady  garden  Jack  re- 
membered. 

Yes,  it  was  a  strangely  picturesque  and  charming 
old  house,  this  Hotel  Saint  Ange;  but  even  so  Nancy 
felt  a  Uttle  lost,  a  Httle  strange,  standing  there  under 
the  porte  cochere.  Then  she  saw  that  painted  up  on  a 
glass  door  just  opposite  the  stairs  leading  to  her 
room  was  the  word  ''Bureau":  it  was  doubtless  there 
that  Jack  had  left  word  when  he  would  be  back. 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON       25 

She  went  across  and  opened  the  door,  but  to  her 
surprise  there  was  no  one  in  the  little  office;  she 
hadn't,  however,  long  to  wait,  for  Madame  Poulain's 
nephew  suddenly  appeared  from  the  courtyard. 

He  had  on  an  apron;  there  was  a  broom  in  his 
hand,  and  as  he  came  towards  her,  walking  very, 
very  slowly,  there  came  over  Nancy  Dampier,  she 
could  not  have  told  you  why,  a  touch  of  repulsion 
from  the  slovenly  youth. 

"I  wish  to  know,"  she  said,  "whether  my  husband 
left  any  message  for  me?" 

But  the  young  man  shook  his  head.  He  shuffled 
first  on  one  foot  and  then  on  the  other,  looking  mis- 
erably awkward.  It  was  plain  that  he  did  not  know 
more  than  a  word  or  two  of  English. 

"I  am  sure,"  she  said,  speaking  slowly  and  very 
distinctly,  "that  my  husband  left  some  kind  of  mes- 
sage with  your  uncle  or  aunt.  Will  you  please  ask 
one  of  them  to  speak  to  me?" 

He  nodded.  "Si,  mademoiselle,^'  and  walked 
quickly  away,  back  into  the  courtyard. 

"Mademoiselle"  again!  What  an  extraordinary 
hotel,  and  what  bad  manners  these  people  had !  And 
yet  again  and  again  Jack  had  compared  English  and 
French  hotels — always  to  the  disadvantage  of  the 
former. 

Long  minutes  went  by,  and  Nancy  began  to  feel 
vexed  and  angry.  Then  there  fell  on  her  listening 
ears  a  phrase  uttered  very  clearly  in  Madame  Poulain's 


26      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

resonant  voice:  "C'esl  ton  tour  maintenant!  Vas-y, 
mon  ami!'' 

And  before  she  had  time  to  try  and  puzzle  out  the 
sense  of  the  words,  she  saw  Monsieur  Poulain's  portly 
figure  emerge  from  the  left  side  of  the  courtyard,  and 
then — when  he  caught  sight  of  the  slim,  blue-clad 
figure  standing  under  his  porte  cochere — beat  a  hasty 
retreat. 

Nancy's  sense  of  discomfort  and  indignation  grew. 
What  did  these  people  mean  by  treating  her  hke  this? 
She  longed  with  a  painful,  almost  a  sick  longing  for 
her  husband's  return.  It  must  be  very  nearly  eleven 
o'clock.     Why  did  he  stay  away  so  long? 

A  painful,  choking  feeling — one  she  had  very,  very 
seldom  experienced  during  the  course  of  her  short, 
prosperous  life,  came  into  her  throat. 

Angrily  she  dashed  away  two  tears  from  her  eyes. 

This  was  a  horrid  hotel!  The  Poulains  were  hate- 
ful people!  Jack  had  made  a  mistake — how  could 
he  have  brought  her  to  such  a  place?  She  would  tell 
him  when  he  came  back  that  he  must  take  her  away 
now,  at  once,  to  some  ordinary,  nice  hotel,  where  the 
people  knew  English,  and  where  they  treated  their 
guests  with  ordinary  civility. 

And  then  there  shot  through  Nancy  Dampier  a 
feeling  of  quick  relief,  for,  walking  across  the  court- 
yard, evidently  on  their  way  out,  came  a  pleasant- 
looking  elderly  gentleman,  accompanied  by  the  girl 
whom  Nancy  had  seen  for  a  brief  moment  standing 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON       27 

on  the  landing  close  to  her  bedroom  door  the  night 
before. 

These  were  English  people?  No,  American  of 
course!  But  that  was  quite  as  good,  for  they,  thank 
heaven!  spoke  English.  She  could  ask  them  to  be 
her  interpreters  with  those  extraordinary  Poulains. 
Jack  wouldn't  mind  her  doing  that.  Why,  he  might 
have  left  quite  an  important  message  for  her! 

She  took  a  step  forward,  and  the  strangers  stopped. 
The  old  gentleman — Nancy  called  him  in  her  own 
mind  an  old  gentleman,  though  Senator  Burton  was 
by  no  means  old  in  his  own  estimation  or  in  that  of 
his  contemporaries — smiled  a  very  pleasant,  genial 
smile. 

Nancy  Dampier  made  a  charming  vision  as  she 
stood  under  the  arch  of  the  porte  cochere,  her  slender, 
blue-clad  figure  silhouetted  against  the  dark  back- 
ground by  the  street  outside,  and  the  colour  coming 
and  going  in  her  face. 

"May  I  speak  to  you  a  moment?"  she  said  shyly. 

"Why  certainly." 

The  American  took  oflf  his  hat,  and  stood  looking 
down  at  her  kindly.  "My  name  is  Burton,  Senator 
Burton,  at  your  service!    What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

The  simple  little  question  brought  back  all  Nancy's 
usual  happy  confidence.  How  silly  she  had  been 
just  now  to  feel  so  distressed. 

"I'm  Mrs.  Dampier,  and  I  can't  make  the  hotel 
people  understand  what  I  say,"  she  explained.     "I 


28      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

mean  Monsieur  and  Madame  Poulain — and  the 
nephew — I  think  his  name  is  Jules — though  he  is  sup- 
posed to  speak  English,  is  so  very  stupid." 

"Yes,  indeed  he  is!"  chimed  in  the  girl  whom  her 
brother  had  called  "Daisy."  "I've  long  ago  given 
up  trying  to  make  that  boy  understand  anything, 
even  in  French.  But  they  do  work  him  most  awfully 
hard,  you  know;  they  have  women  in  each  day  to 
help  with  the  cleaning,  but  that  poor  lad  does  every- 
thing else — everything,  that  is,  that  the  Poulains 
don't  do  themselves." 

"What  is  it  that  you  can't  make  them  understand? " 
asked  Senator  Burton  indulgently.  "Tell  us  what 
it  is  you  want  to  ask  them?" 

"I  only  wish  to  know  at  what  time  my  husband 
went  out,  and  whether  he  left  any  message  for  me," 
answered  Nancy  rather  shamefacedly.  "You  see  the 
hotel  is  so  full  that  they  put  us  on  different  floors, 
and  I  haven't  seen  him  this  morning." 

"I'll  find  that  out  for  you  at  once.  I  expect 
Madame  Poulain  is  in  her  kitchen  just  now." 

The  Senator  turned  and  went  back  into  the  court- 
yard, leaving  his  daughter  and  the  young  English- 
woman alone  together. 

"The  Poulains  seem  such  odd,  queer  people,"  said 
Nancy  hesitatingly. 

"D'you  think  so?  We've  always  found  them  all 
right,"  said  the  girl,  smiling.  "Of  course  they're 
dreadfully  busy  just  now  because  of  the  Exhibition. 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      29 

The  hotel  is  full  of  French  people,  and  they  give 
Madame  Poulain  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  But  she 
doesn't  grudge  it,  for  she  and  her  husband  are  simply 
coining  money!  They're  determined  that  their 
daughter  shall  have  a  splendid  dowry!"  She  waited 
a  moment,  and  then  repeated,  "Oh,  yes,  the  Pou- 
lains  are  very  good  sort  of  people.  They're  very 
kindly  and  good-natured." 

To  this  remark  Nancy  made  no  answer.  She 
thought  the  Poulains  both  rude  and  disagreeable, 
but  she  had  no  wish  to  speak  ill  of  them  to  this  nice 
girl.  How  lucky  it  was  that  these  kind  Americans 
had  come  to  her  rescue!  Though  still  feeling  indig- 
nant and  uncomfortable  with  regard  to  the  way  in 
which  she  had  been  treated  by  the  hotel-keeper  and 
his  wife,  she  felt  quite  happy  again  now. 

Senator  Burton  was  away  for  what  seemed,  not 
only  to  Mrs.  Dampier,  but  also  to  his  daughter,  a 
considerable  time.  But  at  last  they  saw  him  coming 
slowly  towards  them.  His  eyes  were  bent  on  the 
ground;  he  seemed  to  be  thinking,  deeply. 

Nancy  Dampier  took  a  step  forward.  "Well?" 
she  said  eagerly,  and  then  a  little  shyly  she  uttered 
his  name,  "Well,  Mr.  Burton?  What  do  they  say? 
Did  my  husband  leave  any  message?" 

"No,  he  doesn't  seem  to  have  done  that."  And 
then  the  Senator  looked  down  searchingly  into  the 
young  Englishwoman's  face.  It  was  a  very  lovely 
face,  and  just  now  the  look  of  appeal,  of  surprise,  in 


30      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

the  blue  eyes  added  a  touch  of  pathetic  charm.  He 
thought  of  the  old  expression,  "Beauty  in  distress." 

His  daughter  broke  in:  "Why,  Mrs.  Dampier, 
do  come  upstairs  and  wait  in  our  sitting-room,"  she 
said  cordially.  "I'll  come  with  you,  for  we  were  only 
going  out  for  a  little  stroll,  weren't  we,  father?" 

Nancy  Dampier  hesitated.  She  did  not  notice 
that  the  American  Senator  omitted  to  endorse  his 
daughter's  invitation;  she  hesitated  for  a  very  differ- 
ent reason:  "You're  very  kind;  but  if  I  do  that  I 
shall  have  to  tell  Madame  Poulain,  for  it  would  give 
my  husband  a  dreadful  fright  if  he  came  in  and 
found  I  had  left  my  room  and  disappeared"— she 
blushed  and  smiled  very  prettily. 

And  again  Senator  Burton  looked  searchingly  down 
into  the  lovely,  flushed  Httle  face;  but  the  deep- 
blue,  guileless-looking  eyes  met  his  questioning  gaze 
very  frankly.  He  said  slowly,  "Very  well,  I  will  go 
and  tell  Madame  Poulain  that  you  will  be  waiting 
up  in  our  sitting-room,  Mrs. — ah — Dampier." 

He  went  out  across  the  courtyard  again,  and  once 
more  he  seemed,  at  any  rate  to  his  daughter,  to  stay 
away  longer  than  was  needed  for  the  delivery  of  so 
simple  a  message. 

Growing  impatient.  Miss  Burton  took  Nancy  Dam- 
pier across  the  sunlit  courtyard  to  the  wide  old  oak 
staircase,  the  escalier  dltonneur,  as  it  was  still  called 
in  the  hotel,  down  which  the  Marquis  de  Saint  Ange 
had  clattered  when  starting  for  Fontenoy. 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      31 

When  they  were  half-way  up  the  Senator  joined 
them,  and  a  few  moments  later  when  they  had 
reached  the  second  landing,  he  put  a  key  in  the  lock 
of  a  finely  carved  door,  then  he  stood  back,  cour- 
teously, to  allow  his  daughter's  guest  to  walk  through 
into  the  small  lobby  which  led  to  the  delightful 
suite  of  rooms  which  the  Burtons  always  occupied 
during  their  frequent  visits  to  Paris. 

Nancy  uttered  an  exclamation  of  delight  as  she 
passed  through  into  the  high-pitched,  stately  salon, 
whose  windows  overlooked  one  of  those  leafy  gardens 
which  are  still  the  pride  of  old  Paris.  "This  is  de- 
hghtful!"  she  exclaimed.  "Who  would  ever  have 
thought  that  they  had  such  rooms  as  this  in  the 
Hotel  Saint  Ange!" 

"There  are  several  of  these  suites,"  said  Daisy 
Burton  pleasantly.  "In  fact,  a  good  many  French 
provincial  people  come  up  here,  year  after  year,  for 
the  winter." 

While  Mrs.  Dampier  and  his  daughter  were  ex- 
changing these  few  words  the  Senator  remained  silent. 
Then — "Is  your  brother  gone  out?"  he  said  abruptly. 

"Yes,  father.  He  went  out  about  half  an  hour 
ago.  But  he  said  he'd  be  back  in  ample  time  to  take 
us  out  to  luncheon.  He  thought  we  might  like  to 
go  to  Foyot's  to-day." 

"So  we  will.     Daisy,  my  dear ?"    He  stopped 

short,  and  his  daughter  looked  at  him,  surprised. 

"Yes,  father?" 


32      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

"I'm  afraid  I  must  ask  you  to  leave  me  with  this 
young  lady  for  a  few  moments.  I  have  something 
to  say  to  her  which  I  think  it  would  be  as  well  that  I 
should  say  alone." 

Nancy  got  up  from  the  chair  on  which  she  had 
already  seated  herself,  and  fear  flashed  into  her  face. 
"What  is  it?"  she  cried  apprehensively.  "You're 
not  going  to  tell  me  that  anything's  happened  to 
Jack!" 

"No,  no,"  said  the  Senator  quickly,  but  even  as  he 
uttered  the  two  short,  reassuring  little  words  he 
averted  his  eyes  from  Mrs.  Dampier's  questioning 
anxious  eyes. 

His  daughter  left  the  room. 

"What  is  it?"  said  Nancy  again,  trying  to  smile. 
"Whatisit,  Mr.  Burton?" 

And  then  the  Senator,  motioning  her  to  a  chair, 
sat  down  too. 

"The  Poulains,"  he  said  gravely — he  was  telling 
himself  that  he  had  never  come  across  so  accom- 
plished an  actress  as  this  young  Englishwoman  was 
proving  herself  to  be — "the  Poulains,"  he  repeated 
very  distinctly,  ^^ declare  that  you  arrived  here  last 
night  alone.  They  say  that  they  did  not  know,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  that  you  were  married.  You  do  not 
seem  to  have  even  given  them  your  name." 

Nancy  stared  at  him  for  a  moment.  Then,  "There 
must  be  some  extraordinary  mistake,"  she  said  quietly. 
"The  Poulains  must  have  thought  you  meant  some 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      33 

one  else.  My  husband  and  I  arrived,  of  course 
together,  late  last  night.  At  first  Madame  Poulain 
said  she  couldn't  take  us  in  as  the  hotel  was  full. 
But  at  last  she  said  that  they  could  give  us  two  small 
rooms.  They  knew  our  name  was  Dampier,  for 
Jack  wrote  to  them  from  Marseilles.  He  and  I  were 
only  married  three  weeks  ago:  this  is  the  end  of  our 
honeymoon.  My  husband,  who  is  an  artist,  is  now 
at  his  studio.  We're  going  to  move  there  in  a  day 
or  two." 

She  spoke  quite  simply  and  straightforwardly,  and 
the  Senator  felt  oddly  reheved  by  her  words. 

He  tried  to  remember  exactly  what  had  happened, 
what  exactly  the  Poulains  had  said,  when  he  had  gone 
into  the  big  roomy  kitchen  which  lay  to  the  left  of  the 
courtyard. 

He  had  certainly  been  quite  clear.  That  is,  he 
had  explained,  in  his  very  good  French,  to  Madame 
Poulain,  that  he  came  to  inquire,  on  behalf  of  a 
young  English  lady,  whether  her  husband,  a  gentle- 
man named  Dampier,  had  left  any  message  for  her. 
And  Madame  Poulain,  coming  across  to  him  in  a 
rather  mysterious  manner,  had  said  in  a  low  voice 
that  she  feared  the  young  lady  was  toquee — i.  e.,  not 
quite  all  right  in  her  head — as,  saving  Monsieur  le 
Senateur's  presence,  English  ladies  so  often  were! 
At  great  length  she  had  gone  on  to  explain  that  the 
young  lady  in  question  had  arrived  very  late  the 
night  before,  and  that  seeing  that  she  was  so  young 


34      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

and  pretty,  and  also  that  she  knew  so  very  little 
French,  they  had  allowed  her,  rather  than  turn  her 
out,  to  occupy  their  own  daughter's  room,  a  room 
they  had  never,  never,  under  any  circumstances, 
allowed  a  chent  to  sleep  in  before. 

Then  Madame  Poulain  had  gone  out  and  called 
Monsieur  Poulain;  and  the  worthy  man  had  confirmed, 
in  every  particular,  what  his  wife  had  just  said — that 
is,  he  had  explained  how  they  had  been  knocked  up 
late  last  night  by  a  loud  ringing  at  the  porte  cochere; 
how  they  had  gone  out  to  the  door,  and  there,  seized 
with  pity  for  this  pretty  young  English  lady,  who 
apparently  knew  so  very,  very  httle  French,  they  had 
allowed  her  to  occupy  their  daughter's  room.  .  .  . 

Finally,  the  good  Poulains,  separately  and  in  uni- 
son, had  begged  the  Senator  to  try  and  find  out  some- 
thing about  their  curious  guest,  as  she  apparently 
knew  too  little  French  to  make  herself  intelHgible. 

Now  that  he  heard  Nancy's  quiet  assertion,  the 
Senator  felt  sure  there  had  been  a  mistake.  The 
Poulains  had  evidently  confused  pretty  Mrs.  Dampier 
with  some  wandering  British  spinster. 

"Let  me  go  down  with  you  now,"  she  said  eagerly. 
"The  truth  is — I  know  you'll  think  me  fooHsh — but 
I'm  afraid  of  the  Poulains!  They've  behaved  so 
oddly  and  so  rudely  to  me  this  morning.  I  hked 
them  very  much  last  night." 

"Yes,"  he  said  cordially.  "We'll  go  right  down 
now;   and  my  girl,  Daisy,  can  come  too." 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      35 

When  his  daughter  came  into  the  room,  ''There's 
been  some  mistake,"  said  Senator  Burton  briefly. 
"It's  my  fault,  I  expect.  I  can't  have  made  it  clear 
to  Madame  Poulain  whom  I  meant.  She  has  con- 
fused Mrs.  Dampier  with  some  English  lady  who 
turned  up  here  alone  late  last  night." 

"But  we  turned  up  late  last  night,"  said  Nancy 
quickly.     "Very,  very  late;  long  after  midnight." 

"Still,  my  brother  and  I  came  in  after  you,"  said 
Daisy  Burton  suddenly.  And  then  she  smiled  and 
reddened.  Mrs.  Dampier  must  certainly  have  over- 
heard Gerald's  remark. 

"It  was  an  awful  job  getting  a  cab  after  that  play, 
father,  and  it  must  have  been  nearly  one  o'clock 
when  we  got  in.  As  we  felt  sure  this  side  of  the 
house  was  shut  up  we  went  up  that  queer  Httle 
back  staircase,  and  so  past  the  open  door  of  Mrs. 
Dampier's  room,"  she  explained. 

To  the  Senator's  surprise,  Mrs.  Dampier  also  grew 
red;  indeed,  she  blushed  crimson  from  forehead  to  chin. 

"My  brother  thought  you  were  French,"  went  on 
Daisy,  a  little  awkwardly.  "In  fact,  we  both  thought 
you  must  be  Madame  Poulain's  daughter.  We  knew 
that  was  Virginie's  room,  and  we've  always  been 
hearing  of  that  girl  ever  since  we  first  came  to  stay 
in  Paris.  She  used  to  be  at  a  convent  school,  and 
she's  with  her  grandmother  in  the  country  just  now, 
to  be  out  of  the  Exhibition  rush.  The  Poulains  sim- 
ply worship  her." 


36      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

The  Senator  looked  very  thoughtful  as  he  walked 
downstairs  behind  the  two  girls.  The  mystery  was 
thickening  in  a  very  disagreeable  way.  Both  hotel- 
keepers  had  stated  positively  that  the  ''demoiselle 
anglaise,"  as  they  called  her,  had  slept  in  their 
daughter's  room.  .  .  . 

But  what  was  this  the  lady  who  called  herself  Mrs. 
Dampier  saying? 

*'My  husband  and  I  realised  you  thought  I  was 
Mademoiselle  Poulain,"  said  Nancy,  and  she  also 
spoke  with  a  touch  of  awkwardness. 

Senator  Burton  put  out  his  right  hand  and  laid 
it,  rather  heavily,  on  his  daughter's  shoulder. 

She  stopped  and  turned  round.     "Yes,  father?" 

"Then  I  suppose  you  also  saw  Mr.  Dampier, 
Daisy?" 

Eagerly  he  hoped  for  confirmation  of  the  charming 
stranger's  story.    But 

"No,"  she  said  reluctantly.  "We  only  saw  Mrs. 
Dampier  and  the  Poulains,  father— they  were  all  in 
the  room  together.  You  see,  we  were  outside  on 
the  dark  staircase,  and  just  stopped  for  a  minute  on 
the  landing  to  say  good-night  to  the  Poulains,  and 
to  tell  them  that  we  had  come  in." 

"I  suppose,  Mrs.  Dampier,  that  by  then  your  hus- 
band had  already  gone  to  his  room?"  But  in  spite 
of  his  efforts  to  make  his  voice  cordial  the  Senator 
failed  to  do  so. 

"No,    he    hadn't    gone    upstairs    then."    Nancy 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      37 

waited  a  moment,  puzzled,  then  she  exclaimed,  "I 
remember  now!  Jack  had  just  stepped  up  into  a 
big  cupboard  which  forms  one  side  of  the  little  room. 
He  came  out  again  just  as  Miss  Burton  and — and 
your  son  had  gone  on  upstairs."  Again  she  reddened 
imcomfortably,  wondering  if  this  nice,  kind  girl  had 
heard  Jack's  unflattering  epithets  concerning  "the 
young  American  cub."  But  no,  Jack's  voice,  if 
angry,  had  been  low. 

When  they  were  at  the  bottom  of  the  staircase 
the  Senator  turned  to  his  daughter. 

"Daisy,"  he  said  quietly,  "I  think  it  will  be  best 
for  this  lady  to  see  Madame  Poulain  with  me  alone." 
And  as  his  daughter  showed  no  sign  of  having  under- 
stood, he  said  again,  with  a  touch  of  severity  in  his 
voice:  "Daisy,  I  desire  you  to  go  upstairs." 

"You'll  bring  Mrs.  Dampier  up  again,  father?" 

He  hesitated — and  then  he  said,  "Yes,  should  she 
wish  it,  I  will  do  so." 

And  Daisy  Burton  turned  away,  up  the  stairs 
again,  very  reluctantly.  Her  indulgent  father  was 
not  given  to  interfere  with  even  the  most  casual  of 
her  friendships,  and  she  already  felt  as  if  this  attract- 
ive young  Englishwoman  was  to  be  her  friend. 

Madame  Poulain  came  slowly  across  the  court- 
yard, and  the  Senator  was  struck  by  her  look  of  ill- 
health,  of  languor.  Clearly  the  worthy  woman  was 
overtaxing  her  strength.    It  was  foolish  of  the  Pou- 


38      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

lains  not  to  have  more  help  in,  but  French  people 
were  like  that! 

Senator  Burton  knew  that  these  good  folks  were 
trying  to  amass  as  large  a  dowry  as  possible  for 
their  adored  only  child.  Virginie  was  now  of  mar- 
riageable age,  and  the  Poulains  had  already  se- 
lected in  their  own  minds  the  man  they  wished  to 
see  their  son-in-law.  He  was  owner  of  an  hotel  at 
Chantilly,  and  as  he  was  young,  healthy,  and  reputed 
kind  and  good-tempered,  he  had  the  right  to  expect  a 
good  dowry  with  his  future  wife.  The  fact  that  this 
was  an  Exhibition  Year  was  a  great  stroke  of  luck 
for  the  Poulains.  It  almost  certainly  meant  that 
their  beloved  Virginie  would  soon  be  settled  close  to 
them  in  charming  salubrious  Chantilly.  .  .  . 

The  proprietress  of  the  Hotel  Saint  Ange  now  stood 
close  to  Senator  Burton  and  his  companion.  Her 
voluble  tongue  was  stilled  for  once:  she  was  twisting 
a  corner  of  her  blue  check  apron  round  and  round  in 
her  strong,  sinewy-looking  fingers. 

"Well,  Madame  Poulain,"  the  American  spoke  very 
gravely,  "there  has  evidently  been  some  strange 
misunderstanding.  This  lady  asserts  most  positively 
that  she  arrived  here  last  night  accompanied  by  her 
husband,  Mr.  Dampier." 

A  look  of — was  it  anger  or  pain? — came  over 
Madame  Poulain's  face.  She  shook  her  head  de- 
cidedly. "I  have  already  told  monsieur,"  she  said 
quickly,  "that  this  lady  arrived  here  last  night  alone. 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      39 

I  know  nothing  of  her  husband :  I  did  not  even  know 
she  was  married.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  monsieur,  we 
ought  to  have  made  her  fill  in  the  usual  form.  But 
it  was  so  late  that  we  put  off  the  formality  till  to-day. 
I  now  regret  very  much  that  we  did  so." 

The  Senator  looked  questioningly  at  Nancy  Dam- 
pier.  She  had  become  from  red  very  white.  "Do 
you  understand  what  she  says?"  he  asked  slowly, 
impassively. 

"Yes — I  understand.  But  she  is  not  telling  the 
truth." 

The  Senator  hesitated.  "I  have  known  Madame 
Poulain  a  long  time,"  he  said. 

"Yes — and  you've  only  known  me  a  few  minutes." 

Nancy  Dampier  felt  as  though  she  were  living 
through  a  horrible  nightmare — horrible  and  at  the 
same  time  absurd.  But  she  made  a  great  effort  to 
remain  calm,  and  to  prove  herself  a  sensible  woman. 
So  she  added  quietly:  "I  can't  tell — I  can't  in  the 
least  guess — why  this  woman  is  telling  such  a 
strange,  silly  untruth.  It  is  easy  to  prove  the  truth 
of  what  I  say,  Mr.  Burton.  My  husband's  name 
is  John  Dampier.  He  is  an  artist,  and  has  a  studio 
here  in  Paris." 

"Do  you  know  the  address  of  your  husband's 
studio,  Mrs.  Dampier?" 

"Of  course  I  do."  The  question  stung  her,  this 
time  past  endurance.  "I  think  I  had  better  have 
a  cab   and  drive  there  straight,"   she  said   stiffly 


40      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

"Please  forgive  me  for  having  given  you  so  much 
trouble.    I'll  manage  all  right  by  myself  now." 

Every  vestige  of  colour  had  receded  from  her  face. 
There  was  a  frightened,  hunted  expression  in  her 
blue  eyes,  and  the  Senator  felt  a  sudden  thrill  of  con- 
cern, of  pity.  What  did  it  all  mean?  Why  should 
this  poor  girl — she  looked  even  younger  than  his 
daughter — ^pretend  that  she  had  come  here  accom- 
panied, if,  after  all,  she  had  not  done  so? 

Madame  Poulain  was  still  looking  at  them  fixedly, 
and  there  was  no  very  pleasant  expression  on  her  face. 

''Well,"  she  said  at  last,  "that  comes  of  being  too 
good-natured,  Monsieur  le  Senateur.  I  never  heard 
of  such  a  thing!  What  does  mademoiselle  accuse 
us  of?  Does  she  think  we  made  away  with  her 
friend?  She  may  have  arrived  with  a  man — as  to 
that  I  say  nothing— but  I  assert  most  positively  that 
in  that  case  he  left  her  before  she  actually  came 
into  the  Hotel  Saint  Ange." 

"Will  you  please  ask  her  to  call  me  a  cab?"  said 
Nancy  trembling. 

And  he  transmitted  the  request;  adding  kindly  in 
EngHsh,  "Of  course  I  am  coming  with  you  as  far 
as  your  husband's  studio.  I  expect  we  shall  find 
that  Mr.  Dampier  went  there  last  night.  The  Pou- 
lains  have  forgotten  that  he  came  with  you:  you 
see  they  are  very  tired  and  overworked  just  now " 

But  Nancy  shook  her  head.  It  was  impossible 
that  the  Poulains  should  have  forgotten  Jack. 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      41 

Madame  Poulain  went  a  step  nearer  to  Senator 
Burton  and  muttered  something,  hurriedly.  He  hesi- 
tated. 

"Mais  si,  Monsieur  le  Senateur." 

And  very  reluctantly  he  transmitted  the  woman's 
disagreeable  message.  "She  thinks  that  perhaps  as 
you  are  going  to  your  husband's  rooms,  you  had 
better  take  your  trunk  with  you,  Mrs.  Dampier." 

Nancy  assented,  almost  eagerly.  "Yes,  do  ask 
her  to  have  my  trunk  brought  down!  I  would  far 
rather  not  come  back  here."  She  was  still  quite  col- 
lected and  quiet  in  her  manner.  "But,  Mr.  Burton, 
hadn't  I  better  pay?  Especially  if  they  persist  in 
saying  I  came  alone?"  she  smiled,  a  tearful  little  smile. 
It  still  seemed  so — so  absurd. 

She  took  out  her  purse.  "I  haven't  much  money, 
for  you  see  Jack  always  pays  everything.  But  I've 
got  an  English  sovereign,  and  I  can  always  draw  a 
cheque.     I  have  my  own  money." 

And  the  Senator  grew  more  and  more  bewildered. 
It  was  clear  that  this  girl  was  either  speaking  the 
truth,  or  else  that  she  was  a  most  wonderful  actress. 
But,  as  every  man  who  has  reached  the  Senator's  age 
is  ruefully  aware,  very  young  women  can  act  on  oc- 
casion in  ordinary  every  day  Hfe,  as  no  professional 
actress  of  genius  ever  did  or  ever  will  do  on  a  stage. 

Madame  Poulain  went  off  briskly,  and  when  she 
came  back  a  few  moments  later,  there  was  a  look  of 
relief,  almost  of  Joy,  on  her  face.    "The  cab  is  here," 


42       THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

she  exclaimed,  "  and  Jules  has  brought  down  madame's 
trunk." 

Nancy  looked  at  the  speaker  quickly.  Then  she 
was  "madame"  again?    Well,  that  was  something. 

"Three  francs — that  will  quite  satisfy  us,"  said 
Madame  Poulain,  handing  over  the  change  for  her 
English  sovereign.  It  was  a  gold  napoleon  and  a 
two-franc  piece.  For  the  first  time  directly  address- 
ing Mrs.  Dampier,  "There  has  evidently  been  a 
mistake,"  she  said  civilly.  "No  doubt  monsieur  left 
madame  at  the  door,  and  went  off  to  his  studio  last 
night.  I  expect  madame  will  find  monsieur  there, 
quite  safe  and  sound." 

Senator  Burton,  well  as  he  believed  himself  to  be 
acquainted  with  his  landlady,  would  have  been  very 
much  taken  aback  had  he  visioned  what  followed  his 
own  and  Mrs.  Dampier's  departure  from  the  Hotel 
Saint  Ange. 

Madame  Poulain  remained  at  the  door  of  the  porte 
cochere  till  the  open  carriage  turned  the  corner  of  the 
narrow  street.     Then  she  looked  at  her  nephew. 

"How  much  did  she  give  you?"  she  asked  roughly. 
And  the  young  man  reluctantly  opened  a  grimy  hand 
and  showed  a  two  franc  piece. 

She  snatched  it  from  him,  and  motioned  him  back 
imperiously  towards  the  courtyard. 

After  he  had  gone  quite  out  of  sight  she  walked 
quickly  up  the  little  street  till  she  came  to  a  low, 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      43 

leather-bound  door  which  gave  access  to  the  church 
whose  fine  buttress  bestowed  such  distinction  on 
the  otherwise  rather  sordid  Rue  Saint  Ange.  Push- 
ing open  the  door  she  passed  through  into  the  dimly- 
lit  side  aisle  where  stood  the  Lady  Altar. 

This  old  church  held  many  memories  for  Madame 
Poulain.  It  was  here  that  Virginie  had  been  chris- 
tened, here  that  there  had  taken  place  the  funeral  ser- 
vice of  the  baby  son  she  never  mentioned  and  still 
bitterly  mourned,  and  it  was  there,  before  the  High 
Altar,  to  the  right  of  which  she  now  stood,  that  she 
hoped  to  see  her  beloved  daughter  stand  ere  long 
a  happy  bride. 

She  looked  round  her  for  a  moment,  bewildered  by 
the  sudden  change  from  the  bright  sunlit  street  to  the 
shadowed  aisle.  Then  she  suddenly  espied  what  she 
had  come  to  seek.  Close  to  where  she  stood  an 
alms-box  clamped  to  the  stone  wall  had  written  upon 
it  the  familiar  legend,  "Pour  les  Pauvres.^' 

Madame  Poulain  took  a  step  forward,  then  dropped 
the  three  francs  Nancy  Dampier  had  just  paid  her, 
and  the  two  francs  she  had  extracted  from  Jules's 
reluctant  hand,  into  the  alms-box. 


CHAPTER  III 

That  the  cabman  was  evidently  familiar  with  the  odd 
address,  "Impasse  des  Nonnes,"  brought  a  measure 
of  relief  to  Senator  Burton's  mind,  and  as  he  turned 
and  gazed  into  the  candid  eyes  of  the  girl  sitting  by 
his  side  he  was  ashamed  of  his  vague  suspicions. 

The  little  carriage  bowled  swiftly  across  the  great 
square  behind  which  wound  the  Rue  Saint  Ange,  up 
one  of  the  steep,  picturesque  streets  which  lead  from 
thence  to  the  Luxembourg  Gardens. 

When  they  had  gone  some  considerable  way  round 
the  gay  and  stately  pleasance  so  dear  to  the  poets 
and  students  of  all  nations,  they  suddenly  turned 
into  the  quaintest,  quietest  thoroughfare  imaginable, 
carved  out  of  one  of  those  old  convent  gardens  which 
till  lately  were  among  the  most  beautiful  and  char- 
acteristic features  of  the  "QuartierJ' 

An  architect,  who  happened  also  to  be  an  artist, 
had  set  up  in  this  remote  and  peaceful  oasis  his  house- 
hold gods,  adding  on  this,  his  own  domain,  a  few 
studios  with  living  rooms  attached. 

A  broad,  sanded  path  ran  between  the  low  pictu- 
resque buildings,  and  so  the  carriage  was  obliged  to 
draw  up  at  the  entrance  to  the  Impasse. 

44 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      45 

Senator  Burton  looked  up  at  the  cabman:  "Better 
not  take  off  the  lady's  trunk  just  yet,"  he  said  quickly 
in  French,  and  though  Nancy  Dampier  made  no 
demur,  she  looked  surprised. 

They  began  walking  up  the  shaded  path,  for  above 
the  low  walls  on  either  side  sprang  flowering  shrubs 
and  trees. 

"What  a  charming  place!"  exclaimed  the  Senator, 
smiling  down  at  her.  "How  fond  you  and  your  hus- 
band must  be  of  it!" 

But  his  companion  shook  her  head.  "I've  never 
been  here,"  she  said  slowly.  "You  see  this  is  my 
first  visit  to  Paris.  Though  I  ought  not  to  call  it  a 
visit,  for  Paris  is  to  be  my  home  now,"  and  she  smiled 
at  last,  happy  in  the  belief  that  in  a  few  moments  she 
would  see  Jack. 

She  was  a  little  troubled  at  the  thought  that  Jack 
would  be  disappointed  at  her  coming  here  in  this 
way,  with  a  stranger.  But  surely  after  she  had 
explained  the  extraordinary  occurrence  of  the  morn- 
ing he  would  understand? 

They  were  now  opposite  No.  3.  It  was  a  curious, 
mosque-like  building,  with  the  domed  roof  of  what 
must  be  the  studio,  in  the  centre.  Boldly  inscribed 
on  a  marble  slab  set  above  the  door  was  the  name, 
"John  Dampier." 

Before  the  bell  had  well  stopped  ringing,  a  sturdy 
apple-faced  old  woman,  wearing  the  Breton  dress 
Jack  so  much  admired,  stood  before  them. 

Nancy  of  course  knew  her  at  once  for  Mere  Bideau. 


46      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

A  pleasant  smile  lit  up  the  gnarled  face,  and  Nancy 
remembered  what  Jack  had  so  often  said  as  to  Mere 
Bideau's  clever  way  of  dealing  with  visitors,  espe- 
cially with  possible  art  patrons. 

Mrs.  Dampier  looked  very  kindly  at  the  old  woman 
who  had  been  so  good  and  so  faithful  a  servant  to  her 
Jack,  and  who,  she  hoped,  would  also  serve  her  well 
and  faithfully. 

Before  the  Senator  had  time  to  speak,  Mere  Bideau, 
shaking  her  head,  observed  respectfully,  "Mr.  Dam- 
pier  is  not  yet  arrived.  But  if  you,  monsieur,  and 
you,  madame,  will  give  yourselves  the  trouble  of  com- 
ing back  this  afternoon  he  will  certainly  be  here,  for  I 
am  expecting  him  any  moment " 

"Do  you  mean  that  Mr.  Dampier  has  not  been 
here  at  all  this  morning?"  enquired  the  Senator. 

"No,  monsieur,  but  as  I  have  just  had  the  honour 
of  informing  you,  my  master  is  to  arrive  to-day  with- 
out fail.  Everything  is  ready  for  him  and  for  his 
lady.  I  had  a  letter  from  Mr.  Dampier  the  day  before 
yesterday."  She  waited  a  moment,  and  then  added, 
"Won't  monsieur  come  in  and  wait?  Mr.  Dampier 
would  indeed  be  sorry  to  miss  monsieur!" 

So  far  so  good.  Senator  Burton  eagerly  acknowl- 
edged to  himself  that  here  was  confirmation — as  much 
confirmation  as  any  reasonable  man  could  expect — 
of  Mrs.  Dampier's  story. 

This  respectable  old  woman  was  evidently  expect- 
ing her  master  and  his  bride  to-day — of  that  there 
could  now  be  no  doubt. 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      47 

"I  beg  of  you  to  enter,"  said  Mere  Bideau  again. 
*' Monsieur  and  madame  may  like  to  visit  the  studio? 
I  do  not  say  that  it  is  very  tidy — but  my  master's 

beautiful  paintings  are  not  affected  by  untidiness " 

and  she  smiled  ingratiatingly. 

This  important-looking  gentleman,  whom  her 
shrewd  Parisian  eyes  and  ears  had  already  told  her 
was  an  American,  might  be  an  important  picture- 
buyer;  in  any  case,  he  was  evidently  gravely  dis- 
appointed at  not  finding  Mr.  Dampier  at  home. 

"My  master  may  arrive  any  moment,"  she  said 
again;  "and  though  I've  had  to  put  all  the  luggage 
he  sent  on  some  time  ago,  in  the  studio — well,  mon- 
sieur and  madame  will  excuse  that!" 

She  stood  aside  to  allow  the  strangers  to  step 
through  into  the  little  passage. 

The  Senator  turned  to  Nancy:  "Hadn't  we  better 
go  in  and  wait?"  he  asked.  "You  must  remember 
that  if  Mr.  Dampier  has  gone  to  the  hotel  they  will 
certainly  tell  him  we  are  here." 

"No,"  said  Nancy  in  a  low  voice,  "I  would  rather 
not  go  in — now.  My  husband  doesn't  want  me  to 
see  the  place  until  he  has  got  it  ready  for  me."  Her 
lips  quivered.  "But  oh,  Mr.  Burton,  where  can  Jack 
be?  What  can  he  be  doing?"  She  put  her  hands 
together  with  a  helpless,  childish  gesture  of  distress. 
Then,  making  an  effort  over  herself,  she  said  in  a 
more  composed  voice,  "But  I  should  Hke  you  to  go 
in  and  just  sec  some  of  Jack's  pictures." 


48      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

With  a  smiling  face  Mere  Bideau  preceded  the 
Senator  down  a  sunny  corridor  into  the  large  studio. 
It  was  circular  in  shape,  lighted  by  a  skylight,  and 
contained  a  few  pieces  of  fine  old  furniture,  now  in- 
congruously allied  to  a  number  of  unopened  packing- 
cases  and  trunks. 

Mere  Bideau  went  on  talking  volubly.  She  was 
evidently  both  fond  and  proud  of  her  master.  Sud- 
denly she  waved  her  lean  arm  towards  a  large,  am- 
bitious painting  showing  a  tj^ical  family  group  of 
French  bourgeois  sitting  in  an  arbour. 

''This  is  what  won  Mr.  Dampier  his  first  Salon 
medal,"  she  explained.  "But  his  work  has  much 
improved  since  then,  as  monsieur  can  see  for  himself!" 
and  she  uncovered  an  unframed  easel  portrait.  It 
was  a  really  interesting,  distinguished  presentment 
of  a  man.  "Is  not  this  excellent?"  exclaimed  Mere 
Bideau  eagerly.  "What  expression,  what  strength 
in  the  mouth,  in  the  eyes!" 

Senator  Burton,  had  the  circumstances  been  other, 
would  perhaps  have  smiled  at  the  old  woman's  en- 
thusiasm, and  at  her  intelligent  criticism.  But  now 
he  simply  nodded  his  head  gravely.  "Yes,  that  is 
a  very  good  portrait,"  he  said  absently.  "And — 
and — where  are  the  living  rooms?" 

"This  way,  monsieur!"  Then,  with  some  surprise, 
"Would  monsieur  care  to  see  the  appartement?  Then 
I  presume  monsieur  is  a  friend  of  my  master." 

But  the  Senator  shook  his  head  quickly.     "No, 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      49 

no,  I  don't  want  to  see  the  rooms,"  he  said.  "I  was 
only  curious  to  know  if  Mr.  Dampier  actually  lived 
here." 

As  there  was  a  suite  of  living  rooms  attached  to 
the  studio,  why  had  the  Dampiers  gone  to  an  hotel? 

"Yes,  monsieur,  there  are  three  beautiful  bed- 
rooms, also  a  bath-room,  and  a  room  which  was  not 
used  by  us,  but  which  my  master  is  going  to  turn  into 
a  little  salon  for  his  lady.  As  for  their  meals — " 
she  shrugged  her  shoulders — "they  will  have  to  be 
served  as  heretofore  in  the  studio."  Then,  "Does 
monsieur  know  the  new  Madame  Dampier?"  enquired 
Mere  Bideau  a  trifle  anxiously. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  imcomfortably.  "Yes,  I  do 
know  her." 

"And  if  monsieur  will  excuse  the  question,  is  she 
a  nice  lady?  It  will  make  a  great  difference  to 
me " 

"Yes,  yes — she  is  very  charming,  very  pretty." 

He  could  not  bring  himself  to  inform  the  good 
woman  that  the  lady  who  had  come  with  him,  and 
who  was  now  waiting  outside  the  house,  claimed  to 
be  Mrs.  Dampier.  It  would  be  too — too  unpleasant 
if  it  turned  out  to  be — well,  a  mistake ! 

The  Senator  was  telling  himself  ruefully  that 
though  there  was  now  ample  evidence  of  the  existence 
of  John  Dampier,  there  was  no  evidence  at  all  as  yet 
that  the  artist  had  ever  been  at  the  Hotel  Saint  Ange: 
still  less  that  the  young  Englishwoman  who  had  just 


50      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

now  refused  to  accompany  him  into  the  studio  was 
John  Dampier's  wife.  However,  that  fact,  as  she  had 
herself  pointed  out  rather  piteously,  could  very  soon 
be  put  to  the  proof. 

Slowly  Senator  Burton  left  the  studio  and  made 
his  way  into  the  open  air,  where  Nancy  was  waiting 
for  him. 

"Well?"  he  said  questioningly.  "Well,  Mrs. 
Dampier,  what  is  it  that  you  would  like  to  do 
now?" 

"I  don't  know  what  I  ought  to  do,"  said  Nancy 
helplessly.  She  had  again  become  very  pale  and  she 
looked  bewildered,  as  well  as  distressed.  "You  see 
I  felt  so  sure  that  we  should  find  Jack  here!" 

"The  only  thing  I  can  suggest  your  doing,"  the 
American  spoke  kindly,  if  a  little  coldly,  "is  to  come 
back  with  me  to  the  Hotel  Saint  Ange.  It  is  prob- 
able that  we  shall  find  Mr.  Dampier  there,  waiting 
for  you.  A  dozen  things  may  have  happened  to 
him,  none  of  which  need  give  you  any  cause  for 
anxiety."  He  pulled  out  his  watch.  "Hum!  It's 
close  on  twelve — yes,  the  only  thing  to  do  is  to  go 
back  to  the  hotel.     It's  almost  certain  we  shall  find 

him  there "  it  was  on  his  lips  to  add,  "if  he  really 

did  come  with  you  last  night,"  but  he  checked  him- 
self in  time. 

"But  Mr.  Burton?     Suppose  Jack  is  not  there?" 

"If  he  doesn't  return  within  the  next  two  or  three 
hours,  then  I  will  consult  with  my  son,  who,  young 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      51 

though  he  be,  has  a  very  good  head  on  his  shoulders, 
as  to  what  will  be  the  best  step  for  you  to  take. 
But  don't  let's  meet  trouble  half-way!  I  have  httle 
doubt  that  we  shall  find  Mr.  Dampier  waiting  for 
you,  vowing  vengeance  against  the  bold  man  who 
has  eloped,  even  with  the  best  of  motives,  with  his 
wife  I"  he  smiled,  and  poor  Nancy  gave  a  quivering 
smile  in  return. 

"I  should  so  much  have  preferred  not  to  go  back 
to  that  hotel,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "I  do  hope 
Jack  won't  make  me  stay  on  there  for  the  next  two 
or  three  days." 

And  with  the  remembrance  of  what  she  had  con- 
sidered to  be  the  gross  insult  put  upon  her  by  Ma- 
dame Poulain,  Nancy  Dampier  reddened  deeply, 
while  her  new  friend  felt  more  and  more  bewildered 
and  puzzled. 

On  the  one  hand  Senator  Burton  had  the  testi- 
mony of  three  trustworthy  persons  that  the  young 
Enghshwoman  had  arrived  alone  at  the  hotel  the 
night  before;  and  against  this  positive  testimony 
there  was  nothing  but  her  bare  word. 

Very,  very  reluctantly,  he  felt  compelled  to  be- 
lieve the  Poulains'  version  of  what  had  happened. 
He  could  think  of  no  motive — in  fact  there  was  no 
motive — which  could  prompt  a  false  assertion  on 
their  part. 

As  they  were  driving  back,  each  silent,  each  full 
of  painful  misgivings,  the  kindly  American  began  to 


52      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

wonder  whether  he  had  not  met  with  that,  if  rare  yet 
undoubted,  condition  known  as  entire  loss  of  memory. 

If,  as  Madame  Poulain  had  suggested,  Mr.  Dampier 
had  left  his  wife  just  before  their  arrival  at  the  hotel, 
was  it  not  conceivable  that  by  some  kind  of  kink  in 
Mrs.  Dampier's  brain — the  kind  of  kink  which  brings 
men  and  women  to  entertain,  when  otherwise  sane, 
certain  strange  delusions — she  had  imagined  the 
story  she  now  told  with  so  much  circumstantial  detail 
and  clearness? 

When  they  were  nearing  the  hotel,  Nancy  put  her 
hand  nervously  on  her  companion's  arm. 

"Mr.  Burton,"  she  whispered,  "I'm  horribly  afraid 
of  the  Poulains!  I  keep  thinking  of  such  dreadful 
things." 

"Now  look  here,  Mrs.  Dampier — "  Senator  Bur- 
ton turned,  and  looking  down  into  her  agitated  face, 
spoke  gently  and  kindly — "though  I  quite  admit  to 
you  these  people's  conduct  must  seem  inexplicable,  I 
feel  sure  you  are  wronging  the  Poulains.  They  are 
very  worthy,  respectable  folk — I've  known  them  long 
enough  to  vouch  for  that  fact.  This  extraordinary 
misunderstanding,  this  mistake — for  it  must  be 
either  a  misunderstanding  or  a  mistake  on  some  one's 
part — will  soon  be  cleared  up,  so  much  is  certain: 
till  then  I  beg  you  not  to  treat  them  as  enemies." 

And  yet  even  Senator  Burton  felt  taken  aback 
when  he  saw  the  undisguised  annoyance,  the  keen 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      53 

irritation  with  which  their  return  to  the  Hotel  Saint 
Ange  was  greeted  by  the  woman  to  whom  he  had  just 
given  so  good  a  certificate  of  character. 

Madame  Poulain  was  standing  on  the  street  side 
of  the  open  porte  cochere,  as  the  carriage  drove  down 
the  narrow  street,  and  the  American  was  astonished 
to  see  the  change  which  came  over  her  face. 

An  angry,  vindictive,  even  a  cruel  expression  swept 
over  it,  and  instead  of  waiting  to  greet  them  as  the 
carriage  drew  up  at  the  door  she  turned  abruptly 
away,  and  shuffled  out  of  sight. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  he  said,  as  the  fiacre  drew  up, 
"don't  get  out  of  the  carriage  yet,  Mrs.  Dampier " 

And  meekly  Nancy  obeyed  him. 

The  Senator  hurried  through  into  the  courtyard. 
Much  would  he  have  given,  and  he  was  a  careful  man, 
to  have  seen  the  image  he  had  formed  of  Jack  Dam- 
pier  standing  on  the  sun-flecked  flagstones.  But  the 
broad  space  stretching  before  him  was  empty,  de- 
serted; during  the  daylight  hours  of  each  day  the 
Exhibition  drew  every  one  away  much  as  a  honey 
cask  might  have  done  a  hive  of  bees. 

Madame  Poulain  did  not  come  out  of  her  kitchen 
as  was  her  usual  hospitable  wont  when  she  heard 
footsteps  echoing  under  the  vaulted  porte  cochere,  and 
so  her  American  guest  had  to  go  across,  and  walk 
right  into  her  special  domain. 

"We  did  not  find  the  gentleman  at  his  studio,"  he 
said  shortly,  "and  I  presume,  Madame  Poulain,  that 
he  has  not  yet  been  here?  " 


54      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

She  shook  her  head  sullenly,  and  then,  with  none 
of  her  usual  suavity,  exclaimed,  "I  do  not  think, 
Monsieur  le  Senateur,  that  you  should  have  brought 
that  demoiselle  back  here!" 

She  gave  him  so  odd — some  would  have  said,  so 
insolent  a  look,  that  the  Senator  realised  for  the  first 
time  what  he  was  to  realise  yet  further  in  connection 
with  this  strange  business,  namely,  that  the  many 
who  go  through  hfe  refusing  to  act  the  part  of  good 
Samaritans  have  at  any  rate  excellent  reasons  for 
their  abstention. 

It  was  disagreeably  clear  that  Madame  Poulain 
thought  him  a  foolish  old  man  who  had  been  caught 
by  an  adventuress's  pretty  face.  .  .  . 

To  their  joint  relief  Monsieur  Poulain  came  stroll- 
ing into  his  wife's  kitchen. 

"I've  been  telHng  Monsieur  le  Senateur,"  ex- 
claimed Madame  Poulain,  ''that  we  do  not  wish  to 
have  anything  more  to  do  with  that  young  person 
who  asserts  that  she  arrived  here  with  a  man  last 
night.  Monsieur  le  Senateur  has  too  good  a  heart: 
he  is  being  deceived." 

The  hotel-keeper  looked  awkwardly,  deprecatingly, 
at  his  valued  American  chent.  ''Paris  is  so  full  of 
queer  people  just  now,"  he  muttered.  "They  keep 
mostly  to  the  other  side  of  the  river,  to  the  Opera 
quarter,  but  we  are  troubled  with  them  here  too, 
during  an  Exhibition  Year!" 

"There  is  nothing  at  all  queer  about  this  poor 
young  lady,"  said  Senator  Burton  sharply — somehow 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      55 

the  cruel  insinuation  roused  him  to  chivalrous  de- 
fence. But  soon  he  changed  his  tone,  "Now  look 
here,  my  good  friends" — he  glanced  from  the  husband 
to  the  wife — "surely  you  have  both  heard  of  people 
who  have  suddenly  lost  their  memory,  even  to  the 
knowledge  of  who  they  were  and  where  they  came 
from?  Now  I  fear— I  very  much  fear— that  something 
of  the  kind  has  happened  to  this  Mrs.  Dampier!  I 
am  as  sure  that  she  is  not  consciously  telhng  a  lie  as  I 
am  that  you  are  telHng  me  the  truth.  For  one  thing, 
I  have  ascertained  that  this  lady's  statement  as  to 
Mr.  John  Dampier  having  a  studio  in  Paris,  where 
he  was  expected  this  morning,  is  true.  As  to  who 
she  is  herself  that  question  can  and  will  be  soon  set  at 
rest.  Meanwhile  my  daughter  and  myself" — and 
then  he  hesitated,  for,  well  as  he  knew  French,  Sen- 
ator Burton  did  not  quite  know  how  to  convey  his 
meaning,  namely,  that  they,  he  and  his  daughter, 
meant  to  see  her  through.  "My  daughter  and  my- 
self," he  repeated  firmly,  "are  going  to  do  the  best  we 
can  to  help  her." 

Madame  Poulain  opened  her  lips— then  she  shut 
them  tight  again.  She  longed  to  tell  "Monsieur  le 
Senateur"  that  in  that  case  she  and  Poulain  must 
have  the  regret  of  asking  him  to  leave  their  hotel. 

But  she  did  not  dare  to  do  this. 

Her  husband  broke  in  conciUatingly:  "No  doubt 
it  is  as  Monsieur  le  Senateur  says,"  he  observed; 
"the  demoiselle  is  what  we  said  she  was  only  this 


56       THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

morning "  and  then  he  uttered  the  word  which  in 

French    means   so   much    and    so    little — the   word 

There  came  another  interruption.  "Here  come 
Mademoiselle  Daisy  and  Monsieur  Gerald!"  exclaimed 
Madame  Poulain  in  a  relieved  tone. 

The  Senator's  son  and  daughter  had  just  emerged 
across  the  courtyard,  from  the  vestibule  where  ended 
the  escalier  d'honneur.  There  was  a  look  of  keen,  alert 
interest  and  curiosity  on  Gerald  Burton's  fine,  in- 
telligent face.  He  was  talking  eagerly  to  his  sister, 
and  Madame  Poulain  told  herself  that  surely  these 
two  young  people  could  not  wish  their  stay  in  Paris 
to  be  comphcated  by  this— this  unfortunate  business 
— for  so  the  Frenchwoman  in  her  own  secret  heart 
designated  the  mysterious  affair  which  was  causing 
her  and  her  worthy  husband  so  much  unnecessary 
trouble. 

Some  little  trouble,  so  she  admitted  to  herself,  they 
had  expected  to  have,  but  they  had  not  thought  it 
would  take  this  very  strange  and  tiresome  shape. 

But  the  hotel-keeper  was  destined  to  be  bitterly 
disappointed  in  her  hope  that  Daisy  and  Gerald  Bur- 
ton would  try  and  dissuade  their  father  from  having 
anything  more  to  do  with  Mrs.  Dampier. 

"Well,  father?"  the  two  fresh  voices  rang  out,  and 
the  Senator  smiled  back  well  pleased.  He  was  one 
of  those  fortunate  fathers  who  are  on  terms  of  full 
confidence  and  friendship  as  well  as  affection  with 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON       57 

their  children.  Indeed  Senator  Burton  was  spe- 
cially blessed;  Daisy  was  devoted  to  her  father,  and 
Gerald  had  never  given  him  a  moment  of  real  unease : 
the  young  man  had  done  well  at  college,  and  now 
seemed  likely  to  become  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
and  successful  exponents  of  that  branch  of  art — 
architecture — modern  America  has  made  specially 
her  own. 

"Well?"  said  the  Senator,  "well,  Daisy,  I  suppose 
you  have  told  your  brother  about  this  odd  affair?" 

As  his  daughter  nodded,  he  went  on: — "As  for  me,  I 
have  unfortimately  nothing  to  tell.  We  found  the 
studio,  and  everything  was  exactly  as  this  poor  young 
lady  said  it  would  be — with  the  one  paramount  excep- 
tion that  her  husband  was  not  there!  And  though  his 
housekeeper  seems  to  be  expecting  Mr.  D ampler 
every  moment,  she  has  had  no  news  of  him  since  he 
wrote,  some  days  ago,  saying  he  would  arrive  this 
morning.  It  certainly  is  a  very  inexphcable  busi- 
ness  "  he  looked  helplessly  from  one  good-look- 
ing, intelligent  yoimg  face  to  the  other. 

"But  where  is  Mrs.  Dampier  now?''  asked  Daisy 
eagerly.  "I  do  tliink  you  might  have  told  me  before 
you  took  her  away,  father.  I  would  have  loved  to 
have  said  good-bye  to  her.     I  do  Hke  her  so  much!" 

"You  won't  have  far  to  go  to  see  her.  Mrs.  Dam- 
pier's  at  the  door,  sitting  in  a  carriage,"  said  her 
father  drily.  "I  had  to  bring  her  back  here:  I  didn't 
know  what  else  to  do." 


58      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

"Why,  of  course,  father,  you  did  quite  right!" 

And  Gerald  Burton  chimed  in,  "Yes,  of  course 
you  were  right  to  do  that,  father." 

Senator  Burton  smiled  a  little  ruefully  at  his  chil- 
dren's unquestioning  approval.  He  himself  was  by 
no  means  sure  that  he  had  done  "  quite  right." 

They  walked,  the  three  of  them,  across  to  the  porte- 
cochere. 

Nancy  Dampier  was  now  sitting  crouched  up  in  a 
corner  of  the  fiacre;  a  handkerchief  was  pressed  to  her 
face,  and  she  was  trying,  not  very  successfully,  to 
stifle  her  sobs  of  nervous  fear  and  distress. 

With  an  eager,  impulsive  gesture  the  American 
girl  leapt  up  the  step  of  the  little  open  carriage. 
"Don't  cry,"  she  whispered  soothingly.  "It  will 
all  come  right  soon!  Why,  I  expect  your  husband 
just  went  out  to  see  a  friend  and  got  kept  somehow. 
If  it  wasn't  for  those  stupid  Poulains'  mistake  about 
last  night  you  wouldn't  feel  really  worried,  now 
would  you?" 

Nancy  dabbed  her  eyes.  She  felt  ashamed  of  be- 
ing caught  crying  by  these  kind  people.  "I  know 
I'm  being  silly ! "  she  gasped.  "You  must  forgive  me ! 
It's  quite  true  I  shouldn't  feel  as  worried  as  I  feel  now 
if  it  wasn't  for  the  Poulains — their  saying,  I  mean, 
that  they've  never  seen  my  husband.  That's  what 
upset  me.  It  all  seems  so  strange  and — and  horrid. 
My  sense  tells  me  it's  quite  probable  Jack  has  gone 
in  to  see  some  friend,  and  was  kept  somehow." 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON       59 

"And  now,"  said  Daisy  Burton  persuasively,  "you 
must  come  upstairs  with  us,  and  we'll  get  Madame 
Poulain  to  send  us  up  a  nice  dejeuner  to  our  sitting- 
room." 

And  so  the  Senator  found  part  of  his  new  problem 
solved  for  him.  Daisy,  so  much  was  clear,  had  deter- 
mined to  befriend — and  that  to  the  uttermost — this 
unfortunate  young  EngHshwoman. 

But  now  there  arose  another  most  disagreeable 
complication. 

Madame  Poulain  had  strolled  out,  her  arms 
akimbo,  to  see  what  was  going  on.  And,  as  if  she 
had  guessed  the  purport  of  Miss  Burton's  words,  she 
walked  forward,  and  speaking  this  time  respectfully, 
even  suavely,  to  "Monsieur  le  Senateur,"  observed, 
"My  husband  and  I  regret  very  greatly  that  we  can- 
not ask  this  lady  to  stay  on  in  our  hotel.  We  have 
no  vacant  room — no  room  at  all!" 

And  then  it  was  that  Gerald  Burton,  who  had 
stood  apart  from  the  discussion,  saying  nothing,  sim- 
ply looking  intently,  sympathetically  at  his  sister  and 
Mrs.  D ampler — took  a  hand  in  the  now  comphcated 
little  human  game. 

"Father!"  he  exclaimed,  speaking  in  low,  sharp 
tones.  "Of  course  Mrs.  Dampier  must  stay  on  here 
with  us  till  her  husband  comes  back!  If  by  some 
extraordinary  chance  he  isn't  back  by  tonight  she 
can  have  my  room — I  shall  easily  find  some  place 
outside."    And  as  his  father  looked  at  him  a  little 


6o      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

doubtfully  he  went  on: — "Will  you  explain  to  Ma- 
dame Poulain  what  we've  settled?  I  can't  trust  my- 
self to  speak  to  the  woman!  She's  behaving  in  the 
most  unkind,  brutal  way  to  this  poor  little  lady." 

He  went  on  between  his  teeth,  "The  Poulains  have 
got  some  game  on  in  connection  with  this  thing,  I 
wish  I  could  guess  what  it  is." 

And  the  Senator,  much  disliking  his  task,  did  speak 
to  Madame  Poulain.  "I  am  arranging  for  Mrs. 
Dampier  to  stay  with  us,  as  our  guest,  till  her  hus- 
band's— hem — arrival.  My  son  will  find  a  room  out- 
side, so  you  need  not  disturb  yourself  about  the  mat- 
ter. Kindly  send  for  Jules,  and  have  her  trunk 
carried  up  to  our  apartments." 

And  Madame  Poulain,  after  an  uncomfortably  long 
pause,  turned  and  silently  obeyed  the  Senator's  be- 
hest. 


CHAPTER  IV 

The  afternoon  wore  itself  away,  and  to  two  out  of 
the  four  people  who  spent  it  together  in  the  pleasant 
salon  of  the  Burtons'  suite  of  rooms  the  hours,  nay 
the  very  minutes,  dragged  as  they  had  never  dragged 
before. 

Looking  back  to  that  first  day  of  distress  and  be- 
wilderment, Nancy  later  sometimes  asked  herself  what 
would  have  happened,  what  she  would  have  done, 
had  she  lacked  the  protection,  the  kindness — and 
what  with  Daisy  Burton  almost  at  once  became  the 
warm  affection — of  this  American  family? 

Daisy  and  Gerald  Burton  not  only  made  her  feel 
that  they  understood,  and,  in  a  measure,  shared  in 
her  distress,  but  they  also  helped  her  to  bear  her 
anguish  and  suspense. 

Although  she  was  not  aware  of  it  very  different 
was  the  mental  attitude  of  their  father. 

Senator  Burton  was  one  of  those  pubHc  men  of 
whom  modern  America  has  a  right  to  be  proud.  He 
was  a  hard  worker — chairman  of  one  Senate  com- 
mittee and  a  member  of  four  others;  he  had  never 
been  a  brilliant  debater,  but  his  more  brilliant  col- 
leagues respected  his  sense  of  logic  and  force  of  char- 

6i 


62       THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

acter.  He  had  always  been  unyielding  in  his  con- 
victions, absolutely  independent  in  his  views,  a  man 
to  whom  many  of  his  fellow-countrymen  would  have 
turned  in  any  kind  of  trouble  or  perplexity  sure  of 
clear  and  honest  counsel. 

And  yet  now,  as  to  this  simple  matter,  the  Sen- 
ator, try  as  he  might,  could  not  make  up  his  mind. 
Nothing,  in  his  long  life,  had  puzzled  him  as  he  was 
puzzled  now.  No  happening,  connected  with  another 
human  being,  had  ever  so  filled  him  with  the  dis- 
comfort born  of  uncertainty. 

But  the  object  of  his — well,  yes,  his  suspicions,  was 
evidently  quite  unconscious  of  the  mingled  feelings 
with  which  he  regarded  her,  and  he  was  half  ashamed 
of  the  ease  with  which  he  concealed  his  trouble  both 
from  his  children  and  from  their  new  friend. 

Nancy  Dampier  was  far  too  ill  at  case  herself 
to  give  any  thought  as  to  how  others  regarded  her. 
She  had  now  become  dreadfully  anxious,  dreadfully 
troubled  about  Jack. 

Much  of  her  time  was  spent  standing  at  a  window 
of  the  corridor  which  formed  a  portion  of  the  Bur- 
tons' ^'appartementy  This  corridor  overlooked  the 
square,  sunny  courtyard  below;  but  during  that  first 
dreary  afternoon  of  suspense  and  waiting  the  Hotel 
Saint  Ange  might  have  been  an  enchanted  palace  of 
sleep.  Not  a  creature  came  in  or  out  through  the 
porte  cochere — with  one  insignificant  exception:  two 
workmen,  dressed  in  picturesque  blue  smocks,  clat- 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON       63 

tered  across  the  big  white  stones,  the  one  swinging 
a  pail  of  quaking  lime  in  his  hand,  and  whistling 
gaily  as  he  went. 

When  a  carriage  stopped,  or  seemed  to  stop,  in  the 
street  which  lay  beyond  the  other  side  of  the  quad- 
rangular group  of  buildings,  then  Nancy's  heart 
would  leap,  and  she  would  lean  out,  dangerously  far 
over  the  grey  bar  of  the  window;  but  the  beloved,  and 
now  familiar  figure  of  her  husband  never  followed  on 
the  sound,  as  she  hoped  against  hope,  it  would  do. 

At  last,  when  the  long  afternoon  was  drawing  to 
a  close.  Senator  Burton  went  down  and  had  another 
long  conversation  with  the  Poulains. 

The  hotel-keeper  and  his  wife  by  now  had  changed 
their  tone;  they  were  quite  respectful,  even  sympa- 
thetic: 

"Of  course  it  is  possible,"  observed  Madame  Pou- 
lain  hesitatingly,  ''that  this  young  lady,  as  you  your- 
self suggested  this  morning,  Monsieur  le  Senateur,  is 
suffering  from  loss  of  memory,  and  that  she  has  imag- 
ined her  arrival  here  with  this  artist  gentleman.  But 
if  so,  what  a  strange  thing  to  fancy  about  oneself! 
Is  it  not  more  likely — I  say  it  with  all  respect, 
Monsieur  le  Senateur — that  for  some  reason  unknown 
to  us  she  is  acting  a  part?" 

And  with  a  heavy  heart  "Monsieur  le  Senateur" 
had  to  admit  that  Madame  Poulain's  view  might  be 
the  correct  one.  Nancy's  charm  of  manner,  even 
her  fragile  and  delicate  beauty,  told  against  her  in 


64      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

the  kindly  but  shrewd  American's  mind.  True,  Mrs. 
Dampier — if  indeed  she  were  Mrs.  Dampier — did 
not  look  like  an  adventuress:  but  then  does  any  ad- 
venturess look  like  an  adventuress  till  she  is  found 
to  be  one? 

The  Frenchwoman  suggested  yet  another  theory. 
"I  have  been  asking  myself,"  she  said,  smiling  a  little 
wryly,  "another  question.  Is  it  not  possible  that 
this  young  lady  and  her  husband  had  a  quarrel? 
Such  incidents  do  occur,  even  during  honeymoons. 
If  the  two  had  a  little  quarrel  he  may  have  left  her 
at  our  door — just  to  punish  her.  Monsieur  le  Senateur. 
He  would  know  she  was  safe  in  our  respectable  hotel. 
Your  sex,  if  I  may  say  so,  Monsieur  le  Senateur,  is 
sometimes  very  unkind,  very  unfeeling,  in  their 
dealings  with  mine." 

Monsieur  Poulain,  who  had  said  nothing,  here  inter- 
vened. "How  you  do  run  on,"  he  said  crossly.  "You 
talk  too  much,  my  wife.  We  haven't  to  account  for 
what  has  happened!" 

But  Senator  Burton  had  been  struck  by  Madame 
Poulain's  notion.  Men,  and  if  all  the  Senator  had 
heard  was  true,  especially  Englishmen,  do  behave 
very  strangely  sometimes  to  their  women-folk.  It 
was  an  Englishman  who  conceived  the  character  of 
Petruchio.  He  remembered  Mrs.  Dampier's  flushed 
face,  the  shy,  embarrassed  manner  with  which  she 
had  come  forward  to  meet  him  that  morning. 
She  had  seemed  rather  unnecessarily  distressed  at 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON       65 

not  being  able  to  make  the  hotel  people  understand 
her:  she  had  evidently  been  much  disappointed  that 
her  husband  had  not  left  a  message  for  her. 

"My  son  thinks  it  possible  that  Mr.  Dampier  may 
have  met  with  an  accident  on  his  way  to  the  studio." 

A  long  questioning  look  flashed  from  Madame  Pou- 
lain  to  her  husband,  but  Poulain  was  a  cautious  soul, 
and  he  gave  his  wife  no  lead. 

"Well,"  she  said  at  last,  "of  course  that  could  be 
ascertained,"  and  the  Senator  with  satisfaction  told 
himself  that  she  was  at  last  taking  a  proper  part  in 
what  had  become  his  trouble,  "but  I  cannot  help 
thinking,  Monsieur  le  Senateur,  that  we  might  give 
this  naughty  husband  a  little  longer — at  any  rate 
till  to-morrow — to  come  back  to  the  fold." 

And  the  Senator,  perplexed  and  disturbed,  told 
himself  that  after  all  this  might  be  good  advice. 

But  when  he  again  went  upstairs  and  Joined  the 
young  people,  he  found  that  this  was  not  at  all  a  plan 
to  which  any  one  of  the  three  was  likely  to  consent. 
In  fact  as  he  came  into  the  sitting-room  where  Nancy 
Dampier  was  now  restlessly  walking  up  and  down, 
he  noticed  that  his  son's  hat  and  his  son's  stick  were 
already  in  his  son's  hands. 

"I  think  I  ought  to  go  off,  father,  to  the  local  Com- 
missaire  of  Police.  There's  one  in  every  Paris  dis- 
trict," said  Gerald  Burton  abruptly.  "Mrs.  Dam- 
pier is  convinced  that  her  husband  did  go  out  this 
morning,  even  if  the  Poulains  did  not  see  him  doing 


66      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

so;  and  she  and  I  think  it  possible,  in  fact,  we  are 
afraid,  that  he  may  have  met  with  an  accident  on 
his  way  to  the  studio." 

As  he  saw  by  his  father's  face  that  this  theory  did 
not  commend  itself  to  the  Senator,  the  young  man 
went  on  quickly: — "At  any  rate  my  doing  this  can 
do  no  harm.  I  might  just  inform  the  Commissaire 
that  a  gentleman  has  been  missing  since  this  morning 
from  the  Hotel  Saint  Ange,  and  that  the  only  theory 
we  can  form  which  can  account  for  his  absence  is  that 
he  may  have  met  with  an  accident.  Mrs.  Dampier 
has  kindly  provided  me  with  a  description  of  her  hus- 
band, and  she  has  told  me  what  she  thinks  he  might 
have  been  wearing." 

Nancy  stopped  her  restless  pacing.  "If  only  the 
Poulains  would  allow  me  to  see  where  Jack  slept  last 
night!"  she  cried,  bursting  into  tears.  "But  oh, 
everything  is  made  so  much  more  difficult  by  their 
extraordinary  assertion  that  he  never  came  here  at 
all!  You  see  he  had  quite  a  large  portmanteau  with 
him,  and  I  can't  possibly  tell  which  of  his  suits  he 
put  on  this  morning." 

And  the  Senator  looking  down  into  her  flushed, 
tearful  face,  wondered  whether  she  were  indeed  tell- 
ing the  truth — and  most  painfully  he  doubted, 
doubted  very  much. 

But  when  Gerald  Burton  came  back  at  the  end  of 
two  hours,  after  a  long  and  weary  struggle  with 
French  officialdom,  all  he  could  report  was  that  to 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      67 

the  best  of  the  Commissaire's  belief  no  Englishman 
had  met  with  an  accident  that  day.  There  had  been 
three  street  accidents  yesterday  in  which  foreigners 
had  been  concerned,  but  none,  most  positively  none, 
to-day.  He  admitted,  however,  that  all  his  reports 
were  not  yet  in. 

Paris,  from  the  human  point  of  view,  swells  to 
monstrous  proportions  when  it  becomes  the  back- 
ground of  a  great  International  World's  Fair.  And 
the  police,  unlike  the  great  majority  of  those  in  the 
vast  hive  where  they  keep  order,  have  nothing  to 
gain  in  exchange  for  the  manifold  discomforts  an 
Exhibition  brings  in  its  train. 

At  last,  worn  out  by  the  mingled  agitations  and 
emotions  of  the  day,  Nancy  went  to  bed. 

The  Senator,  Gerald  and  Daisy  Burton  waited  up 
some  time  longer.  It  was  a  comfort  to  the  father  to 
be  able  to  feel  that  at  last  he  was  alone  for  a  while 
with  his  children.  To  them  at  least  he  could  un- 
burden his  perplexed  and  now  burdened  mind. 

"I  suppose  it  didn't  occur  to  you,  Gerald,  to  go  to 
this  Mr.  Dampier's  studio?" 

He  looked  enquiringly  at  his  son. 

Gerald  Burton  was  sitting  at  the  table  from  which 
Mrs.  Dampier  had  just  risen.  He  looked,  if  a  trifle 
weary,  yet  full  of  eager  energy  and  life — a  fine  spec- 
imen of  strong,  confident  young  manhood — a  son  of 
whom  any  father  might  well  be  fond  and  proud. 


68      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

The  Senator  had  great  confidence  in  Gerald's  sense 
and  judgment. 

"Yes  indeed,  father,  I  went  there  first.  Not  only 
did  I  go  to  the  studio,  but  from  the  Commissaire's 
office  I  visited  many  of  the  infirmaries  and  hospitals 
of  the  Quarter.  You  see,  I  didn't  trust  the  Commis- 
saire;  I  don't  think  he  really  knew  whether  there 
had  been  any  street  accidents  or  not.  In  fact  at 
the  end  of  our  talk  he  admitted  as  much  him- 
self." 

"And  at  Mr.  Dampier's  studio?"  queried  the  Sen- 
ator. "What  did  you  find  there?  Didn't  the  old 
housekeeper  seem  surprised  at  her  master's  prolonged 
absence?" 

"Yes,  father,  she  did  indeed.  I  could  see  that  she 
was  beginning  to  feel  very  much  annoyed  and  put 
out  about  it." 

"Did  she  tell  you,"  asked  the  Senator  hesitatingly, 
"what  sort  of  man  this  Mr.  Dampier  is?" 

"She  spoke  very  well  of  him,"  said  young  Burton, 
with  a  touch  of  reluctance  in  his  voice,  "but  she  ad- 
mitted that  he  was  a  casual  sort  of  fellow." 

Gerald's  sister  looked  up.  She  broke  in,  rather 
eagerly,  "What  sort  of  a  man  do  you  suppose  Mr. 
Dampier  to  be,  Gerald?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  rather  ill-temperedly. 
He,  too,  was  tired,  after  the  long  day  of  waiting  and 
suspense.  "How  can  I  possibly  tell,  Daisy?  I  must 
say  it's  rather  Hke  a  woman  to  ask  such  a  question! 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      69 

From  something  Mrs.  Dampier  said,  I  gather  he  is  a 
plain-looking  chap." 

And  then  Daisy  laughed  heartily,  for  the  first  time 
that  day.  "Why,  she  adores  him!"  she  cried,  "she 
can't  have  told  you  that." 

"Indeed  she  did!  But  you  weren't  there  when  I 
made  her  describe  him  carefully  to  me.  I  had  to 
ask  her,  for  it  was  important  that  I  should  have 
some  sort  of  notion  what  the  fellow  is  like." 

He  took  out  his  note-book.  "I'll  tell  you  what  I 
wrote  down,  practically  from  her  dictation.  *A  tall 
man — taller  than  the  average  Englishman.  A  loosely- 
hung  fellow;  (he  doesn't  care  for  any  kind  of  sport,  I 
gather).  Thirty  five  years  of  age;  (seems  a  bit  old 
to  have  married  a  girl — she  won't  be  twenty  till  next 
month).  He  has  big,  strongly-marked  features,  and 
a  good  deal  of  fair  hair.  Always  wears  an  old 
fashioned  repeater  watch  and  bunch  of  seals.  Was 
probably  wearing  this  morning  a  light  grey  tweed 
suit  and  a  straw  hat.'"  Gerald  looked  up  and 
turned  to  his  sister,  "If  you  call  that  the  descrip- 
tion of  a  good-looking  man,  well,  all  I  can  say  is  that 
I  don't  agree  with  you,  Daisy!" 

"He's  a  very  good  artist,"  said  the  Senator  mildly. 
"Did  you  go  into  his  studio,  Gerald?" 

"Yes,  I  did.  And  I  can't  say  that  I  agree  with 
you,  father:  I  didn't  care  for  any  of  the  pictures  I 
saw  there." 

Gerald   Burton   spoke   rather   crossly.     Both    his 


70      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

father  and  sister  felt  surprised  at  his  tone.  He  was 
generally  very  equable  and  good-tempered.  But 
where  any  sort  of  art  was  concerned  he  naturally 
claimed  to  speak  with  authority. 

"Have  you  any  theory,  Gerald" — the  Senator 
hesitated,  "to  account  for  the  extraordinary  dis- 
crepancy between  the  Poulains'  story  and  what  Mrs. 
Dampier  asserts  to  be  the  case?" 

"Yes,  father,  I  have  a  quite  definite  theory.  I  be- 
lieve the  Poulains  are  lying." 

The  young  man  leant  forward  across  the  round 
table.  He  spoke  very  earnestly,  but  even  as  he  spoke 
he  lowered  his  voice,  as  if  fearing  to  be  overheard. 

Senator  Burton  glanced  at  the  door.  "You  can 
speak  quite  openly,"  he  said  rather  sharply.  "You 
forget  that  there  is  the  door  of  our  appartement  as  well 
as  a  passage  between  this  room  and  the  staircase." 

"No,  father,  I  don't  forget  that.  But  it  would  be 
quite  easy  for  anyone  to  creep  in.  The  Poulains 
have  pass  keys  everywhere." 

"My  dear  boy,  they  don't  understand  English!" 

"Jules  does,  father.  He  knows  far  more  English 
than  he  admits.  At  any  rate  he  understands  every- 
thing one  says  to  him." 

Daisy  broke  in  with  a  touch  of  impatience.  "But 
with  what  object  could  the  Poulains  tell  such  a  stupid 
and  cruel  untruth,  one,  too,  which  is  sure  to  be  found 
out  very  soon?  If  this  Mr.  Dampier  did  arrive  here 
last  night,  well  then,  he  did — if  he  didn't,  he  didn't!" 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON       71 

"Yes,  that's  true,"  Gerald  turned  to  his  sister. 
"And  though  I've  given  a  good  deal  of  thought  to  it 
during  the  last  few  hours — I  can't  form  any  theory 
yet  as  to  why  the  Poulains  are  lying.  I  only  feel 
quite  sure  that  they  are." 

"It's  a  curious  thing,"  observed  the  Senator  mu- 
singly, "that  neither  of  you  saw  this  Mr.  Dampier 
last  night — curious,  I  mean,  that  he  should  have  just 
stepped  up  into  a  cupboard,  as  ]Mrs.  Dampier  says 
he  did,  at  the  exact  moment  when  you  were  outside 
the  door." 

Neither  of  his  children  made  any  reply.  That 
coincidence  still  troubled  Daisy  Burton. 

At  last, — "I  don't  see  that  it's  at  all  curious," 
exclaimed  her  brother  hastily.  "It's  very  unfortu- 
nate, of  course,  for  if  we  had  happened  to  see  him 
the  Poulains  couldn't  have  told  the  tale  they  told  you 
this  morning." 

The  Senator  sighed.  He  was  tired — tired  of  the 
long  afternoon  spent  in  doing  nothing,  and,  to  tell 
the  truth,  tired  of  the  curious,  inexpHcable  problem 
with  which  he  had  been  battling  since  the  morning. 

"Well,  I  say  it  with  sincere  regret,  but  I  am  in- 
clined to  beHeve  the  Poulains." 

"Father!"  His  son  was  looking  at  him  with  sur- 
prise and  yes,  indignation. 

"Yes,  Gerald.  I  am,  for  the  present,  inclined  not 
only  to  beHeve  the  Poulains'  clear  and  consistent 
Story,  but  to  share  Madame  Poulain's  view  of  the 
case " 


72       THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

"And  what  is  her  view?"  asked  Daisy  eagerly. 

"Well,  my  dear,  her  view — the  view,  let  me  remind 
you,  of  a  sensible  woman  who,  I  fancy,  has  seen  a 
good  deal  of  life — is  that  Mr.  Dampier  did  accompany 
his  wife  here,  as  far  as  the  hotel,  that  is.  That  then, 
as  the  result  of  what  our  good  landlady  calls  a  'que- 
relle  d'amoureux,'  he  left  her — knowing  she  would  be 
quite  safe  of  course  in  so  respectable  a  place  as  the 
Hotel  Saint  Ange." 

Daisy  Burton  only  said  one  word — but  that  word 
was  "Brute!"  and  her  father  saw  that  there  was  the 
light  of  battle  in  her  eyes. 

"My  dear,"  he  said  gently,  "you  forget  that  it 
was  an  Englishman  who  wrote  'The  Taming  of  the 
Shrew.'" 

"And  yet  American  girls — of  a  sort — are  quite 
eager  to  marry  Enghshmen!" 

The  Senator  quickly  pursued  his  advantage.  "Now 
is  it  likely  that  Madame  Poulain  would  make  such 
a  suggestion  if  she  were  not  telling  the  truth?  Of 
course  her  view  is  that  this  Mr.  Dampier  will  turn 
up,  safe  and  sound,  when  he  thinks  he  has  sufficiently 
punished  his  poor  little  wife  for  her  share  in  their 
'lovers'  quarrel.'" 

But  at  this  Gerald  Burton  shook  his  head.  "We 
know  nothing  of  this  man  Dampier,"  he  said,  "but 
I  would  stake  my  life  on  Mrs.  Dampier's  truthful- 
ness." 

The  Senator  rose  from  his  chair.  Gerald's  atti- 
tude was  generous;  he  would  not  have  had  him  other- 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON       73 

wise  but  still  he  felt  irritated  by  his  son's  suspicion 
of  the  Poulains. 

"Well,  it's  getting  late,  and  I  suppose  we  ought 
all  to  go  to  bed  now,  especially  as  they  begin  moving 
about  so  early  in  this  place.  As  for  you,  my  boy,  I 
hope  you've  secured  a  good  room  outside,  eh?  " 

Gerald  Burton  also  got  up.  He  smiled  and  shook 
his  head. 

"No,  father,  I  haven't  found  a  place  at  all  yet! 
The  truth  is  I've  been  so  tremendously  taken  up  with 
this  affair  that  I  forgot  all  about  having  to  find  a 
room  to-night." 

"Oh  dear!"  cried  Daisy  in  dismay.  "Won't  you 
find  it  very  difficult?  They  say  Paris  is  absolutely 
full  just  now.  Why,  a  lot  of  people  who  have  never 
let  before  are  letting  out  rooms  just  now — so  Madame 
Poulain  says." 

"Don't  worry  about  me.  I  shall  be  all  right," 
said  Gerald  quickly.  "I  suppose  my  things  have 
been  moved  into  your  room,  father?" 

Daisy  nodded.     "Yes,  I  saw  to  all  that.     In  fact 

I  did  more "  she  smiled;  the  brother  and  sister 

were  very  fond  of  one  another.  "I  packed  your  bag 
for  you,  Ger." 

"Thanks,"  he  said.  And  then  going  quickly  round 
the  table,  he  bent  down  and  kissed  her.  "I'll  be  in 
early  to-morrow  morning,"  he  said,  nodding  to  his 
father. 

Then  he  went  out. 


74      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

Daisy  Burton  felt  surprised.  Gerald  was  the  best 
of  brothers,  but  he  didn't  often  kiss  her  good-night. 
There  had  been  a  strange  touch  of  excitement,  of 
emotion,  in  his  manner  to-night.  It  was  natural 
that  she  herself  should  be  moved  by  Nancy  Dam- 
pier's  distress.  But  Gerald?  Gerald,  who  was  gen- 
erally speaking  rather  nonchalant,  and  very,  very 
critical  of  women? 

''Gerald's  tremendously  excited  about  this  thing," 
said  Daisy  thoughtfully.  She  was  two  years  younger 
in  years  than  her  brother,  but  older,  as  young  women 
are  apt  to  be  older,  in  all  that  counts  in  civilised  life. 
"I've  never  seen  him  quite  so — so  keen  about  any- 
thing before." 

"I  hope  he  will  have  got  a  comfortable  room," 
said  the  Senator  a  little  crossly.  Then  fondly  he 
turned  and  took  his  daughter's  hand.  "Sleep  well, 
my  darling,"  he  said.  "You  two  have  been  very 
kind  to  that  poor  little  soul.  And  I  love  you  both  for 
it.     Whatever  happens,  kindness  is  never  lost." 

"Why,  what  d'you  mean,  father?"  she  looked  down 
at  him  troubled,  rather  disturbed  by  his  words. 

"Well,  Daisy,  the  truth  is,"— he  hesitated— "I 
can't  make  out  whether  this  Mrs.  Dampier  is  all  she 
seems  to  be.  And  I  want  to  prepare  you  for  a  pos- 
sible disappointment,  my  dear.  When  I  was  a  young 
man  I  once  took  a  great  fancy  to  someone  who — well, 

who  disappointed  me  cruelly "  he  was  speaking 

very  gravely.     "It  just  spoilt  my  ideal  for  a  time — I 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      75 

mean  my  ideal  of  human  nature.  Now  I  don't  want 
anything  of  that  kind  to  happen  to  you  or  to  our  boy 
in  connection  with  this — this  young  lady." 

"But,  father?  You  know  French  people  aren't 
as  particular  about  telling  the  truth  as  are  English 
people.  I  can't  understand  why  you  beheve  the 
Poulains'  story " 

"My  dear,  I  don't  know  what  to  believe,"  he  said 
thoughtfully. 

She  was  twenty-four  years  old,  this  grey-eyed, 
honest,  straightforward  girl  of  his;  and  yet  Senator 
Burton,  much  as  he  loved  her,  knew  very  little  as  to 
her  knowledge  of  life.  Did  Daisy  know  anything 
of  the  ugly  side  of  human  nature?  Did  she  know,  for 
instance,  that  there  are  men  and  women,  especially 
women,  who  spend  their  lives  preying  on  the  hon- 
est, the  chivalrous,  and  the  kind? 

"The  mystery  is  sure  to  be  cleared  up  very  soon," 
he  said  aloud.  "If  what  our  new  friend  says  is  true 
there  must  be  as  many  people  in  England  who  know 
her  to  be  what  she  says  she  is,  as  there  are  people  in 
Paris  who  evidently  know  all  about  the  artist,  John 
D  ampler." 

"Yes,  that's  true.    But  father?" 

"Yes,  my  dear." 

"I  am  quite  sure  Mrs.  Dampier  is  telling  the 
truth." 

Somehow  the  fact  that  Daisy  was  anxious  to  say 
that  she  disagreed  with  him  stung  the  Senator. 


76      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

"Then  what  do  you  think  of  the  Poulains?"  he 
asked  quietly — "the  Poulains,  whom  you  have 
known,  my  dear,  ever  since  you  were  fifteen — on 
whose  honesty  and  probity  I  personally  would  stake 
a  good  deal.     What  do  you  think  about  them?" 

Daisy  began  to  look  very  troubled.  "I  don't  know 
what  to  think,"  she  faltered.  "The  truth  is,  father, 
I  haven't  thought  very  much  of  the  Poulains  in  the 
matter.  You  see,  Madame  Poulain  has  not  spoken 
to  me  about  it  at  all.  But  you  see  that  Gerald  be- 
lieves them  to  be  lying." 

"Gerald,"  said  the  Senator  rather  sharply,  "is  still 
only  a  boy  in  many  things,  Daisy.  And  boys  are 
apt,  as  you  and  I  know,  to  take  sides,  to  feel  very 
positive  about  things.  But  you  and  I,  my  darling 
— well,  we  must  try  to  be  judicial — we  must  try  to 
keep  our  heads,  eh?" 

"Yes,  father,  yes — we  must,  indeed";  but  even  as 
she  said  the  words  she  did  not  quite  know  what  her 
father  meant  by  "judicial." 

And  Gerald  Burton?  For  a  while,  perhaps  for  an 
hour,  holding  his  heavy  bag  in  his  hand,  he  wandered 
about  from  hostelry  to  hostelry,  only  to  be  told  ev- 
erywhere that  there  was  no  room. 

Then,  taking  a  sudden  resolution,  he  went  into  a 
respectable  little  cafe  which  was  still  open,  and  where 
he  and  his  father,  in  days  gone  by,  had  sometimes 
strolled  in   together  when  Daisy  was  going  about 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON       77 

with  friends  in  Paris.  There  he  asked  permission 
to  leave  his  bag.  Even  had  he  found  a  room,  he 
could  not  have  slept — so  he  assured  himself.  He 
was  too  excited,  his  brain  was  working  too  quickly. 

Talking  busily,  anxiously,  argumentatively  to  him- 
self as  he  went,  he  made  his  way  to  the  river — to  the 
broad,  tree-hned  quays  which  to  your  true  lover  of 
Paris  contain  the  most  enchanting  and  characteris- 
tic vistas  of  the  city. 

Once  there,  his  footsteps  became  slower.  He  thrust 
his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  walked  along,  with  eyes 
bent  on  the  ground. 

What  manner  of  man  could  John  Dampier  be 
to  leave  his  young  wife — such  a  beautiful,  trusting, 
confiding  creature  as  was  evidently  this  poor  girl — 
in  this  cruel  uncertainty?  Was  it  conceivable  that 
the  man  lived  who  could  behave  to  this  Mrs.  Dampier 
with  the  unkindness  Gerald's  father  had  suggested 
— and  that  as  the  outcome  of  a  trifling  quarrel?  No! 
Gerald  Burton's  generous  nature  revolted  from  such 
a  notion. 

And  yet — and  yet  his  father  thought  it  quite  pos- 
sible! To  Gerald  his  father's  views  and  his  father's 
attitude  to  life  meant  a  great  deal  more  than  he  was 
wont  to  allow,  either  to  that  same  kind  indulgent 
father  or  to  himself;  and  now  he  had  to  admit  that 
the  Senator  did  believe  that  what  seemed  so  revolt- 
ing to  him,  Gerald,  was  the  most  probable  explana- 
tion of  the  mystery. 

The  young  man  had  stayed  quite  a  while  at  the 


78      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

studio,  listening  to  Mere  Bideau's  garrulous  confi- 
dences. Now  and  again  he  had  asked  her  a  question, 
forced  thereto  by  some  obscure  but  none  the  less 
intense  desire  to  know  what  Nancy  Dampier's  hus- 
band was  like.  And  the  old  woman  had  acknowl- 
edged, in  answer  to  a  word  from  him,  that  her 
master  was  not  a  good-tempered  man. 

"Monsieur"  could  be  very  cross,  very  disagreeable 
sometimes.  But  bah!  were  not  all  gentlemen  Hke  that? 
— so  Mere  Bideau  had  added  with  an  easy  laugh. 

On  the  whole,  however — so  much  must  be  ad- 
mitted— she  had  given  Dampier  a  very  good  charac- 
ter. If  quick-tempered,  he  was  generous,  considerate, 
and,  above  all,  hard-working.  But — but  Mere  Bideau 
had  been  very  much  surprised  to  hear  "Monsieur" 
was  going  to  be  married — and  to  an  Englishwoman, 
too!  She,  Mere  Bideau,  had  always  supposed  he 
preferred  Frenchwomen;  in  fact,  he  had  told  her  so 
time  and  again.  But  bah!  again;  what  won't  a 
pretty  face  do  with  a  man?  So  Mere  Bideau  had 
exclaimed  'twixt  smile  and  sigh. 

Gerald  Burton  began  walking  more  quickly,  this 
time  towards  the  west,  along  the  quay  which  leads 
to  the  Chamber  of  Deputies. 

The  wide  thoroughfare  was  deserted  save  for  an 
occasional  straggler  making  his  weary  way  home  after 
a  day  spent  in  ministering  to  the  wants  and  the  pleas- 
ures of  the  strangers  who  now  crowded  the  city.  .  .  . 

How  wise  he,  Gerald  Burton,  was  now  showing 


THE  END   OF  HER  HONEYMOON       79 

himself  to  be  in  thus  spending  the  short  summer 
night  out-of-doors,  a  la  belle  eloile,  as  the  French  so 
charmingly  put  it,  instead  of  in  some  stuffy,  perhaps 
not  overclean,  little  room! 

But  soon  his  mind  swung  back  to  the  strange 
events  of  the  past  day! 

Already  Nancy  Dampier's  personality  held  a 
strange,  beckoning  fascination  for  the  young  Amer- 
ican. He  hadn't  met  many  English  girls,  for  his 
father  far  preferred  France  to  England,  and  it  was 
to  France  they  sped  whenever  they  had  time  to  do 
so.  And  Gerald  Burton  hadn't  cared  very  much  for 
the  few  English  girls  he  had  met.  But  Nancy  was 
very,  very  different  from  the  only  two  kinds  of  her 
fellow  countrywomen  with  whom  he  had  ever  been 
acquainted — the  kind,  that  is,  who  is  closely  chap- 
eroned by  vigilant  mother  or  friend,  and  the  kind  who 
spends  her  life  wandering  about  the  world  by  herself. 

How  brave,  how  gentle,  how — how  self-controlled 
Mrs.  Dampier  had  been!  While  it  was  clear  that 
she  was  terribly  distressed,  and  all  the  more  distressed 
by  the  Poulains'  monstrous  assertion  that  she  had 
come  alone  to  the  Hotel  Saint  Ange,  yet  how  well  she 
had  behaved  all  that  long  day  of  waiting  and  sus- 
pense! How  anxious  she  had  been  to  spare  the  Bur- 
tons trouble. 

Not  for  a  single  moment  had  he,  Gerald  Burton, 
felt  with  her  as  he  so  often  felt  with  women — awk- 
ward and  self-conscious.     Deep  in  his  inmost  heart  he 


8o      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

was  aware  that  there  were  women  and  girls  who 
thought  him  very  good-looking;  and  far  from  pleas- 
ing him,  the  knowledge  made  him  feel  sometimes  shy, 
sometimes  even  angry.  He  already  ardently  wished 
to  protect,  to  help,  to  shelter  Mrs.  Dampier. 

Daisy  had  been  out  of  the  room  for  a  moment, 
probably  packing  his  bag,  when  he  had  come  back 
tired  and  weary  from  his  fruitless  quest,  and  Mrs. 
Dampier,  if  keenly  disappointed  that  he  had  no  news, 
had  yet  thanked  him  very  touchingly  for  the  trifling 
trouble,  or  so  it  now  seemed,  that  he  had  taken  for 
her. 

*'I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  your  kind  father,  for  your  sister,  and — and 
for  you,  Mr.  Burton." 

He  walked  across  the  bridge  leading  to  the  Champs 
Elysees,  paced  round  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  and  then 
strolled  back  to  the  deserted  quays.  He  had  no  wish 
to  go  on  to  the  Boulevards.  It  was  Paris  asleep,  not 
Paris  awake,  with  which  Gerald  Burton  felt  in  dose 
communion  during  that  short  summer  night. 

And  how  short  is  a  Paris  summer  night!  Soon 
after  he  had  seen  the  sun  rise  over  an  eastern  bend 
of  the  river,  the  long,  low  buildings  which  line  the 
Seine  below  the  quays  stirred  into  life,  and  he  was 
able  to  enjoy  a  deUcious,  a  refreshing  plunge  in  the 
great  swimming-bath  which  is  among  the  luxuries 
Paris  provides  for  those  of  her  sons  who  are  early- 
morning  toilers. 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      8i 

Six  o'clock  found  Gerald  Burton  at  the  cafe  where 
he  had  left  his  bag,  ready  for  a  cup  of  good  coffee. 

The  woman  who  served  him — the  waiters  were  still 
asleep — told  him  of  a  room  likely  to  be  disengaged 
the  next  night. 

The  next  night?  But  if  Dampier  were  to  come 
back  this  morning — as,  according  to  one  theory,  he 
was  very  likely  to  do — then  he,  Gerald,  would  have 
no  need  of  a  room. 

Somehow  that  possibility  was  not  as  agreeable  to 
him  as  it  ought  to  have  been.  In  theory  Gerald 
Burton  longed  for  this  unknown  man's  return — for  a 
happy  solution,  that  is,  of  the  strange  mystery  which 
had  been  cast,  in  so  dramatic  a  fashion,  athwart  the 
Burtons'  placid,  normal  life;  but,  scarce  consciously 
to  himself,  the  young  American  felt  that  Dampier's 
reappearance  would  end,  and  that  rather  tamely,  an 
exciting  and  in  some  ways  a  very  fascinating  ad- 
venture. 

As  he  came  up  the  Rue  Saint  Ange,  he  saw  their 
landlord,  a  blue  apron  tied  about  his  portly  waist, 
busily  brushing  the  pavement  in  front  of  the  hotel 
with  a  yellow  broom. 

"Well?"  he  said  eagerly,  "well,  Monsieur  Poulain, 
any  news?" 

Poulain  looked  up  at  him  and  shook  his  head. 
"No,  Monsieur  Gerald,"  he  said  sullenly,  "no  news 
at  all." 


CHAPTER  V 

Nancy  Dampier  sat  up  in  bed. 

Long  rays  of  bright  sunlight  filtering  in  between 
deep  blue  curtains  showed  her  a  large,  lofty  room, 
with  panelled  walls,  and  furniture  covered  with  blue 
damask  silk. 

It  was  more  Hke  an  elegant  boudoir  in  an  old 
Enghsh  country  house  than  a  bedroom,  and  for  a 
moment  she  wondered,  bewildered,  where  she  could  be. 

Then  suddenly  she  remembered  —  remembered 
everything;  and  her  heart  filled,  brimmed  over,  with 
seething  pain  and  a  sharp,  overwhelming  sensation 
of  fear. 

Jack  had  gone:  disappeared:  vanished  as  if  the 
earth  had  swallowed  him  up!  And  she,  Nancy,  was 
alone  in  a  foreign  city  where  she  did  not  know  a  sin- 
gle soul,  with  the  paramount  exception  of  the  Amer- 
ican strangers  who  had  come  to  her  help  in  so  kindly 
and  so  generous  a  fashion. 

She  pushed  her  soft  hair  back  from  her  forehead, 
and  tried  to  recall,  step  by  step,  all  that  had  happened 
yesterday. 

Two  facts  started  out  clearly — her  almost  painful 
82 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      83 

gratitude  to  the  Burtons  and  her  shrinking  terror 
of  the  Poulains,  or  rather  of  Madame  Poulain,  the 
woman  who  had  looked  fixedly  into  her  face  and  hed. 

As  to  what  had  happened  to  Dampier,  Nancy's 
imagination  began  to  whisper  things  of  unutterable 
dread.  If  her  Jack  had  been  possessed  of  a  large 
sum  of  money  she  would  have  suspected  the  hotel 
people  of  having  murdered  him.  .  .  . 

But  no,  she  and  Jack  had  come  to  the  end  of  the 
ample  provision  of  gold  and  banknotes  with  which 
they  had  started  for  Italy.  As  is  the  way  with  most 
prosperous  newly-married  folk,  they  had  spent  a  good 
deal  more  on  their  short  honeymoon  than  they  had 
reckoned  to  do.  He  had  said  so  the  day  before  yes- 
terday, in  the  train,  when  within  an  hour  of  Paris. 
Indeed  he  had  added  that  one  of  the  first  things  they 
must  do  the  next  day  must  be  to  call  at  the  English 
bank  where  he  kept  an  account. 

She  now  told  herself  that  she  had  to  face  the 
possibility,  nay  the  probability,  that  her  husband 
had  met  with  some  serious  accident  on  his  way  to 
the  Impasse  des  Nonnes.  Nancy  knew  that  this  had 
been  Gerald  Burton's  theory,  and  of  her  three  new 
kind  friends  it  was  Gerald  Burton  who  impressed  her 
with  the  greatest  trust  and  confidence.  He,  unhke 
his  father,  had  at  once  implicitly  believed  her  ver- 
sion of  what  had  taken  place  when  she  and  Jack  ar- 
rived at  the  Hotel  Saint  Ange. 

The  bedroom  door  opened,  cautiously,  quietly,  and 


84      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

Daisy  Burton  came  in  carrying  a  tray  in  her  pretty 
graceful  hands. 

Poor  Nancy!  She  felt  confused,  grateful,  and  a 
little  awkward.  She  had  not  realised  that  her  nerv- 
ous dread  of  Madame  Poulain  would  mean  that  this 
kind  girl  must  wait  on  her. 

"I  came  in  before,  but  you  were  sound  asleep. 
Still,  I  thought  I  must  wake  you  now,  for  father  wants 
to  know  if  you  would  mind  him  going  to  our  Embassy 
about  your  husband?  It's  really  my  brother's  idea. 
As  you  know,  Gerald  thinks  it  almost  certain  that 
Mr.  Dampier  met  with  some  kind  of  accident  yes- 
terday morning,  and  he  isn't  a  bit  satisfied  with  the 
way  the  local  Commissaire  de  Police  answered  his 
enquiries.  Gerald  thinks  the  only  way  to  get  attended 
to  in  Paris  is  to  make  people  feel  that  you  are  impor- 
tant, and  that  they  will  get  into  trouble  if  they  don't 
attend  to  you  promptly!" 

Even  as  she  was  speaking  Daisy  Burton  smiled 
rather  nervously,  for  both  she  and  Gerald  had  just 
gone  through  a  very  disagreeable  half-hour  with  their 
generally  docile  and  obedient  father. 

The  Senator  did  not  wish  to  go  to  the  American 
Embassy — at  any  rate  not  yet — about  this  strange 
business.  He  had  pleaded  with  both  his  young  peo- 
ple to  wait,  at  any  rate,  till  the  afternoon:  at  any  mo- 
ment, so  he  pointed  out,  they  might  have  news  of 
the  missing  man :  but  Gerald  was  inexorable. 

"No,  father,  that's  no  use;  if  we  do  nothing  we 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      85 

shan't  get  proper  attention  from  the  police  officials 
till  to-morrow.  If  you  will  only  go  and  see  Mr.  Cur- 
tis about  this  business  I  promise  to  take  all  other 
trouble  off  your  hands." 

And  then  the  Senator  had  actually  groaned — as  if 
he  minded  trouble! 

"Mr.  Curtis  will  do  for  you  what  he  certainly 
wouldn't  do  for  me,  father.  Daisy  can  go  with  you 
to  the  Embassy:  I'll  stay  and  look  after  Mrs.  Dam- 
pier:  she  mustn't  be  left  alone,  exposed  to  the  Pou- 
lains'  insolence." 

And  so  the  matter  had  been  settled.  But  Senator 
Burton  had  made  one  stipulation: — 

"I  won't  go  to  the  Embassy," he  said  firmly,"  with- 
out hearing  from  Mrs.  Dampier's  own  lips  that  such 
is  her  wish.  And,  Daisy?  Gerald?  Hearken  to  me 
— neither  of  you  is  to  say  anything  to  influence  her 
in  the  matter,  one  way  or  the  other." 

And  so  it  was  with  a  certain  relief  that  Daisy  Bur- 
ton now  heard  her  new  friend  say  eagerly : 

"Why  of  course!  I  shall  only  be  too  grateful  if 
your  father  wiU  do  anything  he  thinks  may  help  me 
to  find  Jack.  Oh,  you  don't  know  how  bewildered 
and  how  frightened  I  feel!" 

And  the  other  answered  soothingly,  "Yes,  indeed 
I  do  know  how  you  must  feel.  But  I  expect  it  will 
be  all  right  soon.  After  all,  Gerald  said — " — she 
hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  went  on  more  firmly 
— "  Gerald  said  that  probably  Mr.  Dampier  met  with 


86      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

quite  a  slight  accident,  and  that  might  be  the  reason 
why  the  tiresome  Commissaire  de  Police  knew  noth- 
ing about  it." 

"But  if  it  was  a  slight  accident,"  Nancy  objected 
quickly,  "Jack  would  have  let  me  know  at  once! 
You  don't  know  my  husband :  he  would  move  heaven 
and  earth  to  save  me  a  minute's  anxiety  or  trouble." 

"I  am  sure  of  that.  But  Gerald  says  that  if  Mr. 
Dampier  did  try  and  arrange  for  you  to  be  sent  a 
message  at  once,  the  message  miscarried " 

It  was  an  hour  later.  The  Senator  had  listened  in 
silence  while  his  young  English  guest  had  expressed 
in  faltering,  but  seemingly  very  sincere,  tones,  her 
gratitude  for  his  projected  visit  to  the  American 
Embassy.  Nay,  she  had  done  more.  Very  earnestly 
Mrs.  Dampier  had  begged  Senator  Burton  and  his 
daughter  not  to  give  themselves  more  trouble  over 
her  affairs  than  was  absolutely  necessary. 

And  her  youth,  her  beauty,  her  expression  of  pitiful 
distress  had  touched  the  Senator,  though  it  had  not 
shaken  his  behef  in  the  Poulains'  story.  He  did 
however  assure  her,  very  kindly  and  courteously, 
that  he  grudged  no  time  spent  in  her  service. 

And  then,  while  Gerald  Burton  accompanied  his 
father  and  his  sister  downstairs,  Nancy  Dampier  was 
left  alone  for  a  few  minutes  with  her  own  troubled 
and  bewildered  thoughts. 

She  walked   restlessly  over   to   one  of   the  high 


THE  END   OF  HER  HONEYMOON       87 

windows  of  the  sitting-room,  and  looked  down  into 
the  shady  garden  below.  Then  her  eyes  wandered 
over  the  picturesque  grey  and  red  roofs  of  the  old 
Paris  Jack  Dampier  loved  so  weU. 

Somehow  the  cheerful,  bright  beauty  of  this  June 
morning  disturbed  and  even  angered  poor  Nancy. 
She  remembered  with  distaste,  even  with  painful 
wonder,  the  sensations  of  pleasure,  of  amusement, 
of  admiration  with  which  she  had  first  come  through 
into  this  formal,  harmoniously  furnished  salon,  which 
was  so  unlike  any  hotel  sitting-room  she  had  ever 
seen  before. 

But  that  had  been  yesterday  morning — infinitely 
long  ago. 

Now,  each  of  the  First  Empire  pieces  of  furniture 
seemed  burnt  into  her  brain:  and  the  human  faces  of 
the  dull  gold  sphinxes  which  jutted  from  each  of  the 
corners  of  the  long,  low  settee  seemed  to  grin  at  her 
maHciously. 

She  felt  unutterably  forlorn  and  wretched.  If  only 
she  could  do  something!  She  told  herself,  with  a 
sensation  of  recoil  and  revolt,  that  she  could  never 
face  another  day  of  suspense  and  waiting  spent  as 
had  been  the  whole  of  yesterday  afternoon  and 
evening. 

Going  up  to  the  brass-rimmed  round  table,  she 
took  up  a  book  which  was  lying  there.  It  was  a 
guide  to  Paris,  arranged  on  the  alphabetical  principle. 
Idly  she   began  turning  over  the  leaves,  and  then 


88      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

suddenly  Nancy  Dampier's  cheeks,  which  had  be- 
come so  pale  as  to  arouse  Senator  Burton's  com- 
miseration, became  deeply  flushed.  She  turned  over 
the  leaves  of  the  guide-book  with  feverish  haste, 
anxious  to  find  what  it  was  that  she  now  sought  there 
before  the  return  of  Gerald  Burton. 

At  last  she  came  to  the  page  marked  M. 

Yes,  there  was  what  she  at  once  longed  and  dreaded 
to  find!  And  she  had  just  read  the  last  line  of  the 
paragraph  when  Gerald  Burton  came  back  into  the 
room. 

Looking  at  him  fixedly,  she  said  quietly  and  in 
what  he  felt  to  be  an  unnaturally  still  voice,  "Mr. 
Burton?  There  is  a  place  in  Paris  called  the  Morgue. 
Do  you  not  think  that  I  ought  to  go  there,  to-day? 
It  says  in  this  guide-book  that  people  who  are  killed 
in  the  streets  of  Paris  are  taken  straight  to  the 
Morgue." 

The  young  American  nodded  gravely.  The  Com- 
missary of  Police  had  mentioned  the  Morgue,  had  in 
fact  suggested  that  those  who  were  seeking  John 
Dampier  would  do  well  to  go  there  within  a  day  or 
two. 

Nancy  went  on: — "Could  I  go  this  morning?  I 
would  far  rather  go  by  myself,  I  mean  without  saying 
anything  about  it  to  either  your  father  or  to  your 
sister." 

He  answered  quickly,  but  so  gently,  so  kindly,  that 
the  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes,  "Yes,  I  quite  under- 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      89 

stand  that.  But  of  course  you  must  allow  me  to 
go  with  you." 

And  she  answered,  again  in  that  quiet,  unnaturally 
still  voice,  "Thank  you.  I  shall  be  grateful  if  you 
will."  Then  after  a  moment,  "Couldn't  we  start 
soon — I  mean  now?" 

"Why  yes,  certainly — if  you  wish  it." 

Without  saying  anything  further,  she  went  to  put 
on  her  hat. 

Gerald  Burton's  notions  as  to  the  Morgue  were  in 
a  sense  at  once  confused  and  clear.  He  had  known  of 
the  place  ever  since  he  could  read.  He  was  aware 
that  it  was  a  building  where  all  those  who  die  a 
violent  death  are  at  once  taken:  he  imagined  it 
further  to  be  a  place  where  morbid  curiosity  drew 
daily  many  tourists.  In  fact  in  an  old  guide-book  of 
which  his  father  was  fond  he  remembered  that  there 
ran  a  sentence : — 

The  Morgue  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  curious 
and  extraordinary  sights  of  Paris,  but  only  those  who 
are  in  the  enjoyment  of  good  nerves  are  advised  to 
visit  it. 

As  he  waited  for  Mrs.  Dampier  the  young  man's 
face  became  very,  very  grave.  Till  now  he  had  not 
envisaged  the  possibility  that  John  Dampier,  this 
unknown  man  across  the  current  of  whose  life  he,  Ger- 
ald Burton,  had  been  thrust  in  so  strange  and  un- 
toward a  manner,  might  be  dead. 


90      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

Sudden  death — that  dread  possibility  which  is 
never  far  from  any  one  of  us — never  haunts  the  mind 
of  normal  youth. 

But  now  there  came  to  Gerald  Burton  a  sudden 
overwhelming  understanding  of  the  transience  not 
only  of  human  life,  but  what  means  so  much  more 
to  most  sentient  human  beings,  the  transience  of 
such  measure  of  happiness  as  we  poor  mortals  are 
allowed  to  enjoy. 

His  imagination  conjured  up  Nancy  Dampier  as 
he  had  first  seen  her  standing  in  Virginie  Poulain's 
little  room.  She  had  been  a  \asion  of  lovely  girl- 
hood, and  yes,  far  more  than  that — though  he  had 
not  known  it  then — of  radiant  content. 

And  now? 

His  unspoken  question  was  answered  by  Mrs.  Dam- 
pier's  return  into  the  room.  He  looked  at  her 
searchingly.  Yes,  she  was  lovely — her  beauty  rather 
heightened  than  diminished,  as  is  so  often  the  case 
with  a  very  young  woman,  by  the  ordeal  she  was 
going  through,  but  all  the  glow  and  radiance  were 
gone  from  her  face. 

''I  ought  to  have  told  you  before,"  he  said  impul- 
sively, "that — that  among  the  men  who  were  taken  to 
the  Morgue  yesterday  morning  there  was  no  one  who 
in  the  least  answered  to  the  description  you  have 
given  me  of  Mr.  Dampier — so  much  the  Commissary 
of  Police  was  able  to  inform  me  most  positively." 

And  Nancy  drew  a  long  convulsive  breath  of  relief. 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      91 

They  went  down  to  the  courtyard,  and  across  to 
the  porte  cochere.  While  they  did  so  Gerald  Burton 
was  unpleasantly  conscious  that  they  were  being 
watched;  watched  from  behind  the  door  which  led 
into  the  garden,  for  there  stood  Jules,  a  broom  as 
almost  always  in  his  hand:  watched  from  the  kitchen 
window,  where  Madame  Poulain  stood  with  arms 
akimbo:  watched  from  behind  the  glass  pane  of  the 
little  office  which  was  only  occupied  when  Monsieur 
Poulain  was  engaged  in  the  pleasant  task  of  making 
out  his  profitable  weekly  bills. 

But  not  one  of  the  three  watchers  came  forward 
and  offered  to  do  them  even  the  usual,  trifling  service 
of  hailing  a  cab. 

The  two  passed  out  into  the  narrow  street  and 
walked  till  they  came  to  the  square  where  stood,  at 
this  still  early  hour  of  the  morning,  long  rows  of 
open  carriages. 

"I  think  we'd  better  drive?"  said  Gerald  Burton 
questioningly. 

And  his  companion  answered  quickly,  "Oh  yes! 
I  should  like  to  get  there  as  quickly  as  possible." 
And  then  her  pale  face  flushed  a  Httle.  "Mr.  Bur- 
ton, will  you  kindly  pay  for  me?" 

She  put  her  purse,  an  absurd,  delicately  tinted  little 
beaded  purse  which  had  been  one  of  her  wedding 
presents,  into  his  hand. 

Gerald  took  it  without  demur.  Had  he  been  es- 
corting an  American  girl,  he  would  have  insisted  on 


92       THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

being  paymaster,  but  some  sure  instinct  had  already 
taught  him  how  to  treat  Nancy  Dampier — he  real- 
ised she  preferred  not  adding  a  material  to  the  many 
immaterial  obligations  she  now  owed  the  Burton 
family. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour's  quick  driving  brought  them 
within  sight  of  the  low,  menacing-looking  building 
which  is  so  curiously,  in  a  sense  so  beautifully,  sit- 
uated on  the  left  bank  of  the  Seine,  to  the  right  of 
Notre  Dame. 

"Mrs.  Dampier?  I  beg  you  not  to  get  out  of  the 
carriage  till  I  come  and  fetch  you,"  said  Gerald  ear- 
nestly, "there  is  no  necessity  for  you  to  come  into  the 
Morgue  unless "  he  hesitated. 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said  quietly.  "Un- 
less you  see  someone  there  who  might  be  Jack.  Yes, 
Mr.  Burton,  I'll  stay  quietly  in  the  carriage  till  you 
come  and  fetch  me.  It's  very  good  of  you  to  have 
thought  of  it." 

But  when  they  drew  up  before  the  great  closed  door 
two  or  three  of  the  incorrigible  beggars  who  spend 
their  days  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  greater  Paris 
churches,  came  eagerly  forward. 

Here  were  a  fine  couple,  a  good-looking  English- 
man and  his  bride.  True,  they  were  about  to  be 
cheated  out  of  their  bit  of  fun,  but  they  might  be 
good  for  a  small  dole — so  thought  the  shrewder  of 
those  idlers  who  seemed,  as  the  carriage  drew  up,  to 
spring  out  of  the  ground. 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      93 

One  of  them  strolled  up  to  Gerald.  "M'sieur  can- 
not go  into  the  Morgue  unless  he  has  a  permit,"  he 
said  with  a  whine. 

Gerald  shook  the  man  off,  and  rang  at  the  closed 
door.  It  seemed  a  long  time  before  it  was  opened 
by  a  man  dressed  hke  a  Paris  workman,  that  is  in  a 
bright  blue  blouse  and  long  baggy  white  trousers. 

"I  want  to  view  any  bodies  which  were  brought  in 
yesterday.     I  fear  I  am  a  Httle  early?" 

He  sHpped  a  five  franc  piece  into  the  man's  hand. 
But  the  silver  key  which  unlocks  so  many  closed 
doors  in  Paris  only  bought  this  time  a  civil  answer. 

"Impossible,  monsieur!  I  should  lose  my  place. 
I  could  not  do  it  for  a  thousand  francs."  And  then 
in  answer  to  the  American's  few  words  of  surprise 
and  discomfiture, — "Yes,  it's  quite  true  that  we  were 
open  to  the  public  till  three  years  ago.  But  it's 
easier  to  get  into  the  Elysee  than  it  is  to  get  into  the 
Morgue,  nowadays."  He  waited  a  moment,  then  he 
murmured  under  his  breath,  "Of  course  if  monsieur 
cares  to  say  that  he  is  looking  for  someone  who  has 
disappeared,  and  if  he  will  provide  a  description,  the 
more  commonplace  the  better,  then — well,  monsieur 
may  be  able  to  obtain  a  permit!  At  any  rate  mon- 
sieur has  only  to  go  along  to  the  office  where  per- 
mits are  issued  to  find  that  what  I  say  is  true.  If 
only  monsieur  will  bring  me  a  permit  I  will  gladly 
show  monsieur  everything  there  is  to  be  seen."  The 
man  became  enthusiastic.     "Not  only  are  there  the 


94      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

bodies  to  see!  We  also  possess  relics  of  many  great 
criminals;  and  as  for  our  refrigerating  machines — ah, 
monsieur,  they  are  really  in  their  way  wonders !  Well 
worth,  as  I  have  sometimes  heard  people  say,  coming 
all  the  way  to  Paris  to  see!" 

Sick  at  heart  Gerald  Burton  turned  away — not, 
however,  before  he  had  explained  gravely  that  his 
wish  in  coming  to  the  Morgue  was  not  to  gratify  idle 
curiosity,  but  to  seek  a  friend  whose  disappearance 
since  the  morning  before  was  causing  acute  anxiety. 

The  man  looked  at  him  doubtfully — somehow  this 
young  gentleman  did  not  look  as  people  generally 
look  who  come  to  the  Morgue  on  serious  business. 
The  janitor  was  only  too  familiar  with  the  signs — 
the  air  of  excitement,  of  dejection,  of  suspense,  the 
reddened  eyelids.  .  .  .  But,  "In  that  case  I  am  sure 
to  see  monsieur  again  within  a  few  minutes,"  he  said 
politely. 

Nancy  had  stepped  down  from  the  carriage. 
"Well?"  she  said  anxiously.  "Well,  won't  he  let 
you  in?" 

"We  shall  have  to  get  an  order.  The  ofhce  is  only 
just  over  there,  opposite  Notre  Dame.  Shall  we  dis- 
miss the  cab?" 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "I  would  far  rather  walk  across." 
Still  followed  by  a  troop  of  ragged  idlers,  they  ha- 
stened across  the  great  space  in  front  of  Notre 
Dame  and  so  to  the  office  of  the  Morgue. 

At  first  the  tired  official  whose  not  always  easy 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      95 

duty  it  is  to  discriminate  between  the  morbid  sight- 
seer and  the  anxious  relative  or  friend,  did  not  be- 
lieve the  American's  story.  He,  too,  evidently 
thought  that  Gerald  and  the  latter's  charming, 
daintily  dressed  companion  were  simply  desirous  of 
seeing  every  sight,  however  horrible,  that  Paris  has 
to  offer.  But  when  he  heard  the  name  'Dampier," 
his  manner  suddenly  changed.  There  came  over  his 
face  a  sincere  look  of  pity  and  concern. 

"You  made  enquiries  concerning  this  gentleman 
yesterday?"  he  observed,  and  Gerald  Burton,  rather 
surprised,  though  after  all  he  need  not  have  been, 
assented.  Then  the  Commissary  of  Police  had  been 
to  some  trouble  for  him  after  all?  He,  Gerald,  had 
done  the  man  an  injustice. 

"We  have  had  five  bodies  already  brought  in  this 
morning,"  said  the  clerk  thoughtfully.  "But  I'm 
sure  that  none  of  them  answers  to  the  description  we 
have  had  of  madame's  husband.  Let  me  see — Mon- 
sieur Dampier  is  aged  thirty-four — he  is  tall,  dressed 
in  a  grey  suit,  or  possibly  a  brown  suit  of  clothes,  with 
a  shock  of  fair  hair?  " 

And  again  Gerald  Burton  was  surprised  how  well 
the  man  remembered. 

The  other  went  into  another  room  and  came  back 
with  a  number  of  grey  cards  in  his  hand.  He  began 
to  mumble  over  the  descriptions,  and  suddenly  Ger- 
ald stopped  him. 

"That  might  be  the  person  we  are  looking  for!" 


96      THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

he  exclaimed.  "I  mean  the  description  you've  just 
read  out — that  of  the  Englishman?" 

"  Oh  no,  monsieur !  I  assure  you  that  the  body  here 
described  is  that  of  a  quite  young  man."  And  as  the 
American  looked  at  him  doubtfully,  he  added,  "But 
still,  if  you  wish  to  make  absolutely  sure  I  will  make 
out  a  permit;  and  madame  can  stay  here  while  you 
go  across  to  the  Morgue."  Again  he  looked  pityingly 
at  Mrs.  Dampier. 

Nancy  shook  her  head.  "Tell  him  I  mean  to  go 
too,"  she  said  quietly. 

The  man  looked  at  her  with  an  odd  expression.  "/ 
should  not  myself  care  to  take  my  wife  or  my  sister 
to  the  Morgue,  monsieur.  Believe  me  her  husband 
is  not  there.  Do  try  and  dissuade  the  poor  lady." 
As  he  spoke  he  averted  his  eyes  from  Nancy's  flushed 
face. 

Gerald  Burton  hesitated:  it  was  really  kind  of  this 
good  fellow  to  feel  so  much  for  a  stranger's  distress. 

"Won't  you  stay  here  and  let  me  go  alone  to  that 
place?  I  think  you  can  trust  me.  You  see  there  is 
only  one  body  there  which  in  any  way  answers  to 
the  description." 

"Yes,  I  quite  understand  that,  but  I'd  rather  go 
too."  Her  lips  quivered.  "You  see  you've  never 
seen  Jack,  Mr.  Burton." 

"I'm  afraid  this  lady  is  quite  determined  to  go 
too,"  said  the  young  American  in  a  low  voice;  and 
without  making  any  further  objection,  the  French- 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      97 

man  filled  in  a  form  and  silently  handed  it  to  Gerald 
Burton. 

And  then  something  happened  which  was  perhaps 
more  untoward  and  strange  than  Gerald  realised. 

He  and  Mrs.  D ampler  were  already  well  started 
across  the  great  sunny  space  in  front  of  Notre  Dame, 
when  suddenly  he  felt  himself  tapped  on  the  shoulder 
by  the  man  from  whom  they  had  Just  parted. 

"Monsieur,  monsieur!"  said  the  French  official 
breathlessly,  "I  forgot  a  most  important  point. 
Visitors  to  the  Morgue  are  not  allowed  to  see  all  the 
bodies  exposed  in  our  mortuary.  When  the  place 
was  closed  to  the  pubhc  we  went  from  one  extreme 
to  the  other.  The  man  whose  description  you  think 
approximates  to  that  of  the  gentleman  you  are  look- 
ing for  is  Number  4.  Tell  the  guardian  to  show  you 
Number  4." 

Then  he  turned  on  his  heel,  without  awaiting  the 
other's  thanks;  and  as  he  walked  away,  the  French- 
man said  aloud,  not  once  but  many  times,  "  Paiivre 
petite  da??ie!''  And  then  again  and  again,  '^Pauvre 
petite  dam£!" 

But  his  conscience  was  clear.  He  had  done  his 
very  best  to  prevent  that  obstinate  young  American 
subjecting  the  "poor  little  lady"  to  the  horrible  or- 
deal she  was  about  to  go  through.  Once  more  he 
spoke  aloud — "They  have  no  imagination — none  at 
all — these  Yankees!"  he  muttered,  shrugging  his 
shoulders. 


CHAPTER  VI 

The  Janitor  of  the  Morgue,  remembering  Gerald 
Burton's  five-franc  piece,  and  perchance  looking  for- 
ward to  another  rond,  was  wreathed  in  smiles. 

Eagerly  he  welcomed  the  two  strangers  into  the 
passage,  and  carefully  he  closed  the  great  doors  be- 
hind them. 

"A  little  minute,"  he  said,  smiling  happily.  "Only 
one  Httle  minute!  The  trifling  formality  of  showing 
your  permit  to  the  gentleman  in  the  office  must  be 
gone  through,  and  then  I  myself  will  show  monsieur 
and  madame  everything  there  is  to  be  seen." 

"We  do  not  wish  to  see  everything,"  said  Gerald 

Burton  sharply.     "We  simply  wish  to  see "  he 

hesitated — "body   Number   4 "    he   lowered  his 

voice,  but  Nancy  understood  enough  French  to  know 
what  it  was  that  he  said. 

With  a  bUnd,  instinctive  gesture  she  put  out  her 
hand,  and  Gerald  Burton  grasped  it  firmly,  and  for 
the  first  time  a  look  of  pity  and  of  sympathy  came 
across  the  janitor's  face. 

Tiens!  Hens!  Then  it  was  true  after  all?  These 
young  people  (he  now  took  them  for  a  brother  and 

98 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      99 

sister)  were  here  on  business,  not,  as  he  had  sup- 
posed, on  pleasure. 

"Come  in  and  wait  here,"  he  said  gravely.  "This 
is  the  doctors'  room,  but  madame  can  sit  here  for  a 
moment  while  the  formalities  are  gone  through." 

He  flung  open  a  door,  and  showed  them  into  a 
curious,  old-fashioned  looking  sitting-room,  strangely 
unlike  the  waiting-room  which  would  have  been 
found  attached,  say,  to  an  American  or  British 
mortuary. 

An  ornate  writing-table  filled  up  one  corner  of  the 
room,  and,  opposite  the  two  windows,  covering  the 
whole  of  the  blank  wall,  was  a  narrow  glass  case 
running  from  floor  to  ceiHng. 

From  this  case  young  Burton  quickly  averted  his 
eyes,  for  it  was  filled  with  wax  models  of  heads 
which  might  have  been  modelled  from  the  denizens 
of  Dante's  Inferno. 

"I'm  afraid  I  must  now  leave  you  for  a  moment," 
he  said  gently;  "sit  over  here,  Mrs.  Dampier,  and 
look  out  on  the  river." 

And  Nancy  obeyed  with  dull  submission.  She 
gazed  on  the  bright,  moving  panorama  before  her, 
aware,  in  a  misty,  indifferent  way,  that  the  view  was 
beautiful,  that  Jack  would  have  thought  it  so. 

This  bend  of  the  Seine  is  always  laden  with  queer, 
picturesque  craft,  and  just  below  the  window  by 
which  she  sat  was  moored  a  flat-bottomed  barge 
which  evidently  served  as  dwelling  place  for  a  very 


100     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

happy  little  family.  One  end  of  the  barge  had  been 
turned  into  a  kind  of  garden,  there  was  even  a  vine- 
covered  arbour,  under  which  two  tiny  children  were 
now  playing  some  absorbing  game. 

And  this  glimpse  of  ordinary  normal  hfe  gradually 
brought  a  feeling  of  peace,  almost  of  comfort,  to 
Nancy's  sore  heart.  She  wondered  if  she  would  ever 
be  happy  again — happy  as  those  Httle  children  play- 
ing outside  were  happy,  without  a  thought  of  care  in 
the  world :  that  had  been  the  kind  of  simple,  unques- 
tioning happiness  she  too  had  thoughtlessly  enjoyed 
till  the  last  three  days. 

When  Gerald  Burton  came  back  he  was  glad  rather 
than  grieved  to  see  that  tears  were  running  down  her 
face. 

But  a  moment  later,  as  they  followed  their  guide 
down  a  humid,  dark  passage  her  tears  stopped,  and 
a  look  of  pinched  terror  came  into  her  eyes. 

Suddenly  there  fell  on  their  ears  loud,  whirring, 
jarring  sounds. 

"What's  that?"  cried  Nancy  in  a  loud  voice.  Her 
nerves  were  taut  with  suspense,  quivering  with  fear 
of  what  she  was  about  to  see. 

And  the  janitor,  as  if  he  understood  her  question, 
turned  round  reassuringly.  ''Only  our  refrigerating 
machines,  madame.  We  think  them  wonderfully 
quiet,  considering.  They  whirr  on  night  and  day, 
they  are  never  stilled.  As  for  me — "  he  added 
jovially — "I  would  miss  the  noise  very  much.    But 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     loi 

as  I  lie  in  bed  listening  to  the  sound  I  know  that 
all  is  well.  It  would  be  a  very  serious  thing  indeed 
for  us  if  the  machines  stopped,  even  for  ten  min- 
utes— "  he  shook  his  head  mysteriously. 

Nancy  breathed  a  little  more  easily.  She  had  not 
imderstood  what  it  was  exactly  that  he  had  said,  but 
his  voice  had  soimded  cheerful  and  kind:  and  she 
remained  for  a  while  ignorant  of  the  meaning  and 
object  of  the  machines  by  which  they  passed  quickly 
in  a  great  room  filled  with  moving  wheels,  and,  even 
on  this  hot  June  day,  full  of  icy  breaths. 

As  they  came  to  the  end  of  the  engine-room  their 
guide  turned  roimd  and  gave  the  young  American 
a  quick,  warning  look.  "Cest  ici,^'  he  said,  under  his 
breath.  And  Gerald  stepped  quickly  in  front  of 
Mrs.  Dampier. 

"Is  what  we  are  going  to  see  very  horrible?"  he 
whispered  hurriedly.  "I  wish  this  lady  to  be  spared 
as  far  as  may  be  from  seeing  anything  especially  pain- 
ful." 

"As  to  horrible — well,  it  depends,  monsieur,  on 
what  is  thought  horrible!  A  good  many  of  my  pen- 
sioners have  been  dangerous  customers  in  their  time — 
but  now?  Fortunately,  monsieur,  the  dead  cannot 
bite!"  and  he  smiled  at  his  own  grim  joke. 

Gerald  Burton  shuddered  involuntarily,  but  as  he 
and  Nancy  followed  the  man  from  the  engine-room 
he  gave  a  sigh  of  relief,  for  they  had  emerged  into  a 
wide,  airy  shed. 


I02     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

The  place  looked  like  a  workshop  of  sorts,  for  it 
was  lined,  on  one  side,  with  what  looked  like  gigantic 
chests  of  drawers,  painted  black;  while  standing 
about  on  the  stone  pavement  were  long  white  deal 
packing  cases.  Over  in  a  corner  was  a  black  box,  of 
which  the  lid  was  loose. 

"You  said  Number  4,  monsieur?"  said  the  man  in 
a  business-Hke  tone.  ''Well,  I  will  get  you  out  Num- 
ber 4.  Kindly  stand  just  over  there — not  in  the 
sunlight,  that  might  prevent  your  seeing  clearly." 
He  added,  speaking  far  more  gently  and  kindly  than 
he  had  yet  done,  "Madame  must  not  be  frightened. 
It  will  be  all  over  in  a  moment." 

Gerald  looked  down  at  his  companion.  Her  face 
seemed  to  have  become  quite  small,  like  that  of  a 
child,  but  the  pupils  of  her  eyes  had  dilated:  as  she 
stared  up  at  him  fearfully  he  Hkened  them,  in  his 
heart,  to  deep  unfathomable  pools. 

She  came  close  up  to  him,  and  then,  without  stop- 
ping to  think,  simply  following  a  natural  instinct, 
he  put  his  arm  round  her  shoulder;  so  would  he  have 
done  to  his  sister  in  a  moment  of  similar  distress. 

"Don't  be  too  frightened,"  he  whispered,  "it  will 
all  be  over  very,  very  soon,  Mrs.  Dampier.  Somehow 
I  don't  think  you  have  anything  to  fear." 

"Please  stand  over  in  that  corner,"  said  the  janitor, 
pointing  towards  the  black  box  Gerald  Burton  had 
noticed  when  they  had  first  come  into  the  yard.  "We 
have  a  poor  lady  in  that  box  who  was  only  brought 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     103 

in  an  hour  ago!  She  was  run  over,  killed  by  an  omni- 
bus— such  a  pity,  for  she  is  such  a  nice  fresh-looking 
lady:  not  more  than  about  thirty  years  of  age.  We 
expect  her  family  any  moment ;  they  will  know  her  by 
her  wedding  ring,  and  by  a  httle  locket  with  a  child's 
hair  in  it." 

Even  as  he  was  speaking  the  man  was  opening  a 
small,  inconspicuous  door,  situated  close  to  that  which 
gave  into  the  refrigerating-engine  room. 

Gerald's  arm  slipped  down  from  Nancy's  shoulder. 
She  had  put  out  her  hand  gropingly,  as  a  blind  child 
might  have  done,  and  he  was  now  holding  the  poor 
Httle  hand  tightly  clasped  in  his  firm  grasp. 

There  came  a  harsh  rumbling  sound,  and  then 
there  was  wheeled  out  into  the  open  yard  an  inclined 
plane  hitched  up  on  huge  iron  wheels.  To  the  in- 
cHned  plane  was  bound  a  swathed,  rigid  figure. 

"Here  is  Number  4,"  said  the  man  in  a  subdued 
tone.  "I  will  uncover  his  face  so  that  madame  and 
monsieur  may  see  if  it  is  the  gentleman  for  whom 
they  are  seeking." 

A  strange  tremor  shot  through  Gerald  Burton. 
He  was  shaken  with  a  variety  of  sensations  of  which 
the  predominant  feeHng  was  that  of  repulsion.  Was 
he  at  last  about  to  gaze  at  the  dead  face  of  the  man 
who,  with  the  one  paramount  exception  of  that  same 
man's  wife,  had  filled  his  mind  and  thoughts  to  the 
exclusion  of  all  else  since  he  had  first  heard  the  name 
of  John  Dampier?    Was  he  now  to  make  acquaint- 


I04     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

ance  with  the  stranger  who  had  yet  in  so  curious  and 
sinister  a  way  become  his  familiar? 

Nancy  gently  withdrew  her  hand  from  his:  lean- 
ing slightly  forward,  she  gazed  at  the  swathed  stark 
form  which  might  possibly — so  much  she  had  told 
herself  at  once — be  that  of  John  Dampier. 

Very  slowly  the  man  drew  off  that  portion  of  the 
sheet  which  covered  the  upper  part  of  the  body,  and, 
as  he  did  so,  Gerald  Burton  heard  the  woman  stand- 
ing by  his  side  utter  a  long,  fluttering  sigh  of  relief. 

Thank  God  it  was  not  Jack — not  her  Jack! 

The  fine,  well-cut  face  was  that  of  a  man  about 
Gerald  Burton's  own  age.  The  features  were  stilled 
in  the  awful  immobility  of  death:  but  for  that  immo- 
bility, the  dead  man  lying  there  before  them  might 
have  been  asleep. 

"An  EngHshman,"  said  the  janitor  thoughtfully, 
"or  perchance  an  American?  A  finely  built  fellow, 
monsieur.  A  true  athlete.  Not  a  wound,  not  a 
touch!  Just  dropped  dead  yesterday  afternoon  in  a 
public  gymnasium." 

"How  extraordinary  it  is,"  observed  Gerald  Bur- 
ton in  a  low  voice,  "that  he  has  not  yet  been  claimed 
by  his  friends " 

"Oh  no,  monsieur,  not  extraordinary  at  all!  We 
in  this  country  write  to  our  children  every  day  when 
we  are  separated  from  them — that  is  if  we  can  afford 
the  stamps.  Not  so  English  or  American  people. 
They  think  their  children  are  sure  to  be  all  right.    In 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     105 

about  a  fortnight  we  shall  have  enquiries  for  Num- 
ber 4,  hardly  before  then." 

"And  by  that  time,"  said  Gerald  slowly,  "I  sup- 
pose the  poor  fellow  will  have  been  buried." 

"Oh  no,  monsieur — "  the  man  laughed,  as  if  the 
other's  remark  struck  him  as  being  really  very  funny. 
"Why,  we  keep  some  of  them  as  long  as  fifteen 
months!  Those  drawers  are  full  of  them — "  he 
pointed  to  the  long  black  chests  which  lined  one  side 
of  the  shed.  "Would  monsieur  like  to  see  some  of 
my  pensioners?  I  have  men,  women,  ay,  and  chil- 
dren too,  cosily  tucked  away  in  there." 

A  low  exclamation  of  horror  escaped  from  Nancy 
Dampier's  lips.  She  turned  ashily  pale.  At  last  she 
understood  what  it  was  the  janitor  was  saying.   .   .   . 

The  man  looked  at  her  with  kindly  concern. 
''Tiens!"  he  said,  "isn't  that  strange?  It  happens 
again  and  again!  People  like  madame  come  here — 
quite  quiet,  quite  brave;  and  then,  though  overjoyed 
at  not  finding  the  person  they  came  to  seek — they 
suddenly  shudder  and  turn  pale;  sometimes  I  have 
known  them  faint!" 

"Kindly  let  us  out  by  the  shortest  and  quickest 
way,"  said  Gerald  quickly. 

"Pardon,  monsieur,  the  law  exacts  that  Number 
4  must  remain  in  your  presence  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour."  The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "You  see 
some  people,  especially  ladies,  are  apt  to  think  after- 
wards that  they  may  have  made  a  mistake:  that 
their  sight  was  at  fault,  and  so  on.    That  is  why  this 


io6     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

tiresome  regulation  is  now  in  force.  I  should  like 
to  oblige  monsieur,  but  to  do  so  would  get  me  into 
trouble." 

He  stopped  speaking,  and  stood  waiting,  at  atten- 
tion. 

And  then,  as  they  stood  there  in  silence,  Gerald, 
looking  beyond  the  still,  swathed  figure  stretched  out 
before  him,  allowed  his  eyes  to  rest  on  these  black 
boxes,  each  containing  one  poor  tenantless  shell  of 
humanity,  from  which  the  unquenchable  spirit  of 
man  had  been  suddenly,  violently  expelled:  and  as 
he  looked,  he  missed  something  that  should  have 
been  there — the  sign,  the  symbol,  of  the  cross. 

A  flood  of  memories  came  surging  through  his  mind 
— memories  of  childish  prayers  learnt  at  his  mother's 
knee,  of  certain  revisions  which  time  had  brought  to 
his  first  innocent,  unquestioning  faith.  And  with 
those  memories  came  anger  and  a  sense  of  humiha- 
tion.  For  there  was  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  to 
show  that  these  boxes  before  him  held  what  had  once 
been  the  dwelling-place  of  that  daily  miracle,  the 
sentient  soul  of  man.  These  defenceless  dead  had 
been  subjected  to  a  last,  continuous,  intolerable  in- 
sult; in  their  flesh  he  felt  that  his  own  humanity  was 
degraded.  Here  was  nothing  to  separate  the  human 
dead  from  the  beasts  of  the  field;  these  boxes  would 
have  looked  the  same  had  they  held  merely  the  bodies 
of  animals  prepared  for  the  inquisitive,  probing  re- 
search of  science. 

His  young  imagination,  strung  to  the  highest  pitch, 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     107 

penetrated  those  shuttered  receptacles  and  showed 
him  on  the  face  of  each  occupant  that  strange  ironic 
smile  with  which  the  dead  husk  of  man  seems  often 
to  betray  the  full  knowledge  now  possessed  by  the 
spirit  which  has  fled.  That  riddle  of  existence,  of 
which  through  the  ages  philosophers  and  kings  had 
sought  the  key,  was  now  an  open  book  to  all  those 
who  lay  here  in  the  still  majesty  of  death.  Yes,  they 
could  well  afford  to  smile — to  smile  at  the  littleness 
which  denied  to  their  tenements  of  flesh  the  smallest 
symbol  of  belief  that  death  was  not  the  end  of  all. 

His  companion  had  also  marked  the  absence  of 
any  sign  of  the  Christian's  hope  in  this  house  of  death, 
and  through  her  mind  there  ran  the  confused  recol- 
lection of  holy  words: — 

"It  is  sown  in  corruption;  it  is  raised  in  incorrup- 
tion.     It  is  sown  in  dishonour;  it  is  raised  in  glory. 

"Behold,  I  shew  you  a  mystery;  we  shall  not  all 
sleep.  .  .  . 

"0  death,  where  is  thy  sting?  0  grave,  where  is 
thy  victory?" 

Comfortable  words !  They  seemed,  merely  by  their 
flight  through  the  tense  gangHa  of  her  brain,  to  break 
into  the  awful  loneliness  of  these  recent  tabernacles 
of  the  spirit,  and  bestow  on  them  the  benison  denied 
them  in  its  pride  by  the  human  family  from  whose 
bosom  they  had  been  torn. 

Then  swiftly  her  mind  turned  to  the  thought  of 
those  who  were  still  watching  and  waiting,  in  that 


io8    THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON      - 

misery  of  suspense  of  which  she  now  knew  each  pang. 
Every  one — surely  every  one — of  these  dead  who 
now  surrounded  her, — silent,  solitary,  had  been  loved 
— for  love  comes  in  some  guise  to  all  poor  himian 
creatures.  Those  mouths,  cheeks,  eyes,  those  rip- 
pling waves  of  woman's  hair,  had  been  kissed — ah, 
how  often.  The  perishing  flesh  had  been  clasped 
heart  to  heart.  .  .  . 

There  came  over  her  soul  a  great  rush  of  pity  for 
those  others,  the  vast  and  scattered  company,  mourn- 
ing, mourning,  and  yet  reaching  out  in  wild  hope 
and  desire  for  their  loved  ones,  whose  bodies  were  all 
the  while  here.  They  did  not  know,  yet  hither  came 
winging  unerringly,  like  flights  of  homing  doves,  their 
myriad  prayers,  their  passionate  loving  thoughts  and 
wistful  thirsty  longing  for  one  word,  one  kiss,  one 
touch  of  the  hand.  .  .  .  Surely  such  thoughts  and 
prayers  sanctified  this  charnel-house. 

She  herself  was  of  that  company — that  company 
who  were  not  sure.  Some,  doubtless,  obstinate,  re- 
fused to  believe  that  death  in  any  form  had  over- 
taken the  missing;  others  feared  to  come  here  and 
look.     She  had  not  feared.  .  .  . 

The  janitor  spoke  to  her,  and  she  started  vio- 
lently. 

"You  are  quite  convinced,  madame,  that  Number 
4  is  not  he  whom  you  seek?" 

These  words,  that  question,  evidently  embodied  a 
formula  the  man  was  bound  to  use. 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     109 

Mrs.  Dampier  bent  her  head. 

"You,  monsieur,  also  have  no  doubt?" 

"None  at  all,"  said  Gerald  briefly. 

With  a  sudden  movement  the  man  put  the  sinister 
carriage  in  motion,  but  when  he  had  got  it  dose  to 
the  door  of  the  mortuary,  he  stopped  a  moment: — 
"We  have  many  compliments  on  our  brancard,^'  he 
said  cheerfully.  "It  is  very  ingenious,  is  it  not? 
You  see  the  wheels  are  so  large  that  a  mere  touch 
pushes  it  backwards  and  forwards.  It  is  quite  easy 
to  wheel  back  into  place  again." 

Gerald  Burton  took  out  a  five-franc  piece.  He 
left  Nancy  Dampier  standing,  an  infinitely  pathetic, 
forlorn  little  figure,  in  the  sunlit  portion  of  the  yard, 
and  approached  the  man. 

"We  must  go  now,"  he  said  hurriedly.  "I  sup- 
pose it  is  quite  easy  to  leave  by  the  way  we  came  in 
■ — through  the  engine-room?  " 

"One  moment,  monsieur,  one  moment!  Before 
showing  you  out  I  must  put  Number  4  back  with  his 
other  companions.  There  is  no  fear  of  his  being 
lonely,  poor  man!  We  had  five  brought  in  this  morn- 
ing." 

They  had  not  long  to  wait  before  the  concierge 
joined  them  again. 

"Won't  monsieur  and  madame  stay  and  just  see 
everything  else  there  is  to  be  seen?"  he  asked  eagerly. 
"We  have  the  most  interesting  relics  of  great  crimi- 
nals, notably  of  Troppman.    Troppman  was  before 


no     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

my  time,  monsieur,  but  the  day  that  his  seven  vic- 
tims were  publicly  exposed  there "  he  pointed 

with  his  thumb  to  the  inconspicuous  door  through 
which  he  had  Just  wheeled  Number  4 — "ah,  that 
was  a  red-letter  day  for  the  Morgue!  Eighteen  thou- 
sand people  came  to  gaze  on  those  seven  bodies. 
And  it  was  lucky,  monsieur,  that  in  those  days  we 
were  open  to  the  public,  for  it  was  the  landlord  of 
their  hotel  who  recognised  the  poor  creatures," 

He  was  now  preceding  his  two  visitors  through  the 
operating  theatre  where  are  held  the  post-mortems. 
From  thence  he  led  them  into  the  hall  where  they 
bad  first  gained  admission.     "Well,  monsieur,  if  you 

really  do  not  care  to  see  our  relics ?  "    He  opened 

the  great  door  through  which  so  few  living  men 
and  women  ever  pass. 

Gerald  Burton  and  Nancy  Dampier  walked  out 
into  the  sunhght,  and  the  last  thing  they  saw  of  the 
Morgue  was  the  smiling  face  of  the  concierge — it  was 
not  often  that  he  received  ten  francs  for  doing  his 
simple  duty. 

"Au  plaisir  de  vous  ramr,  monsieur,  madame:  au 
plaisir  de  vous  revoir  T^  he  said  gaily.  And  as  the 
courteous  old  French  mode  of  adieu  fell  upon  their 
ears,  Gerald  Burton  felt  an  awful  sensation  of  horror, 
of  oppression,  yes  and  of  dread,  steal  over  him. 

Nancy  Dampier,  looking  up  at  her  companion, 
suddenly  forgot  herself.  " Mr. Burton,"  she  exclaimed, 
her  voice  full  of  concern, "I'm  afraid  this  has  made  you 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     iii 

feel  ill?  I  oughtn't  to  have  let  you  come  here!" 
And  it  was  she  who  in  her  clear,  low  voice  told  the 
cabman  the  address  of  the  Hotel  Saint  Ange. 

Gerald  Burton  muttered  a  word  of  half-angry  ex- 
cuse. He  was  keenly  ashamed  of  what  he  took  to 
be  his  lack  of  manliness. 

But  during  the  weeks,  aye  and  the  months  that 
followed  he  found  himself  constantly  haunted  by 
the  gentle,  ironic  words  of  farewell  uttered  by  the 
concierge  of  the  Morgue:  "Au  plaisir  de  vous  revoir, 
monsieur,  madame :  au  plaisir  de  vous  revoir!  " 


CHAPTER  VII 

The  American  abroad  has  a  touching  faith,  first,  in 
the  might  and  power  of  his  country  to  redress  all 
wrongs,  and  secondly,  in  the  personal  prestige  of  his 
Ambassador. 

As  a  rule  this  faith  is  justified  by  works,  but  in  the 
special  and  very  peculiar  case  of  John  Dampier,  Sen- 
ator Burton  was  destined  to  meet  with  disappoint- 
ment. 

With  keen  vexation  he  learnt  that  the  distinguished 
and  genial  individual  who  just  then  represented  the 
great  sister  Republic  in  Paris,  and  on  whom  he  himself 
had  absolutely  counted  for  advice  and  help,  for  they 
were  old  friends  and  allies,  had  taken  sick  leave  for 
three  months. 

Paris,  during  an  Exhibition  Year,  seems  mysteri- 
ously to  lose  the  wonderful  climate  which  a  certain 
British  Minister  for  Foreign  Affairs  once  declared  to 
be  the  only  one  that  suited  every  diplomat's  consti- 
tution ! 

The  Senator  and  his  daughter  drove  on  from  the 
American  Embassy  to  the  American  Consulate,  and 
it  was  with  a  feeling  of  considerable  satisfaction  that 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     113 

they  were  shown  by  a  courteous  janitor  into  the 
pleasant,  airy  waiting-room  where  a  large  engraving 
of  Christopher  Columbus,  and  a  huge  photograph  of 
the  Washington  Monument,  welcome  the  wandering 
American. 

Even  in  this  waiting-room  there  was  an  air  of 
cheerful  activity,  a  constant  coming  and  going,  which 
showed  that  whatever  might  be  the  case  with  the 
Embassy,  the  Consulate,  at  any  rate,  was  very  much 
alive. 

*'Mr.  Senator  Burton?  Glad  to  see  you,  sir!  What 
can  we  do  for  you?"  The  words  fell  with  a  cheering, 
refreshing  sound  on  the  Senator's  ears,  though  the 
speaker  went  on  a  trifle  less  cordially,  "We  are  sim- 
ply overwhelmed  with  business  just  now!  You  can 
imagine — but  no,  no  one  could  imagine,  the  length, 
the  breadth,  the  scope  of  what  people  think  to  be  our 
duties  in  an  Exhibition  Year!" 

The  distinguished  visitor  and  his  daughter  were 
being  shown  into  the  Consul's  own  pleasant  study. 
Now  this  spacious,  comfortable  apartment  is  hung 
with  fine  engravings  of  the  White  House  and  of  the 
Capitol,  and  Senator  Burton  felt  a  thrill  of  yearning 
as  well  as  of  pride  when  he  gazed  at  these  familiar, 
stately  buildings  which  looked  so  homelike  and  dear 
when  seen  amid  alien  surroundings. 

And  as  he  sat  down,  and  prepared  to  state  his  busi- 
ness, there  suddenly  came  over  this  kindly  American 
a  curious  feeling  of  misgiving,  of  self-rebuke.     Had 


114     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

he  remained  at  home  in  Washington,  content  with 
all  his  familiar  duties  and  pleasures,  he  would  never 
have  been  brought  into  this  association  with  a  strange, 
unpleasant  life-story. 

But  he  soon  shook  off  this  feeUng  of  misgix'ing,  and 
as  the  curious  tale  he  had  to  tell  was  being  hstened  to, 
kindly  and  patiently,  he  felt  glad  indeed  that  he  had 
at  last  found  a  fellow-coimtr^Tnan  in  whom  to  con- 
fide, and  on  whose  advice  he  could  rely. 

But  when  Senator  Burton  had  finished  speaking, 
the  American  Consul  shook  his  head.  "I  only  wish 
we  could  help  you!"  he  exclaimed.  "But  we  can  do 
nothing  where  a  British  subject  is  concerned.  We've 
quite  enough  to  do  looking  after  those  of  our  own 
people  who  disappear  in  Paris!  Would  you  be  sur- 
prised to  learn,  Mr.  Senator,  that  four  of  our  coun- 
trymen have  completely  vanished  within  the  last  two 
days?"  And  as  Daisy  uttered  a  little  exclamation 
of  incredulous  dismay,  "Don't  feel  so  badly  about  it, 
my  dear  young  lady,  I  quite  expect  all  four  of  them 
to  turn  up  again,  after  having  given  us  and  their 
friends  a  great  deal  of  useless,  expensive  worry." 

"What  I  really  want,"  said  the  Senator  earnestly, 
"is  not  your  official  assistance,  but  a  word  of  practi- 
cal advice.  What  is  it  this  unfortunate  young  lady, 
Mrs.  Dampier,  ought  to  do?  We've  tried  the  Com- 
missaire  de  Police  of  the  quarter,  and  he's  perfectly 
useless:  in  fact  my  son,  who's  seen  him  twice,  doesn't 
believe  a  word  he  says." 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     115 

The  Consul  gave  what  Senator  Burton  felt  to  be 
a  very  French  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"That  don't  surprise  me!  As  regards  the  lower 
branch  of  the  service  the  poUce  here  is  very  under- 
staffed. The  only  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  take  this 
poor  lady  to  the  British  Consulate.  They  are  driven 
to  death  there,  just  as  we  are  here,  and  they'll  nat- 
urally snatch  at  any  excuse  to  avoid  an  extra  job. 
But  of  course  if  this  Mrs.  Dampier  is,  as  you  say,  a 
British  subject — well,  they're  bound  to  do  something 
for  her.  But  you  may  believe  me  when  I  say,  Mr. 
Senator,  that  there's  probably  nothing  really  mys- 
terious about  the  case.  You  may  find  this  Mr.  Dam- 
pier  at  the  hotel  when  you  return  there.  It  may 
interest  you  to  learn" — he  hesitated,  and  glanced  at 
his  young  countrywoman — "that  among  our  coun- 
trymen who  vanish,  I  mean  in  a  temporary  way,  there 
are  more  married  men  than  bachelors." 

And  with  that  enigmatic  pronouncement  the  genial 
Consul  courteously  and  smilingly  dismissed  Senator 
Burton  and  his  daughter. 

The  same  afternoon  saw  the  Senator  and  Mrs. 
Dampier  on  their  way  to  the  British  Consulate. 

The  day  before  Nancy  had  been  unwilling  to  leave 
the  hotel  for  even  the  shortest  space  of  time,  now 
she  seemed  simk  into  apathetic  despair — and  yet, 
as  they  drove  along  together,  the  Senator  still  doubted, 
still  wondered  in  the  depths  of  his  heart,  whether 


ii6     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

the  lovely  young  woman  now  sitting  silent  by  his 
side,  was  not  making  a  fool  of  him,  as  she  had  cer- 
tainly done  of  his  two  children. 

He  caught  himself  again  and  again  thinking  of  her 
as  "Nancy;"  already  his  daughter  and  she  were  on 
Christian-name  terms  with  one  another;  and  as  for 
Gerald,  he  had  put  everything  else  aside  to  devote 
himself  entirely  to  solving  the  mystery  of  John  Dam- 
pier's  disappearance. 

At  last  they  reached  the  British  Consulate,  and 
the  American  could  not  help  feeling  a  thrill  of  pride 
as  he  mentally  compared  the  Office  where  he  had 
been  that  morning  and  that  which  represented,  in 
this  shabby  side  street,  the  commercial  might  and 
weight  of  the  British  Empire. 

The  waiting-room  into  which  they  were  shown  was 
a  gloomy  apartment  looking  on  to  an  inner  courtyard, 
and  Senator  Burton's  card  did  not  produce  the  magic 
effect  it  had  done  at  the  American  Consulate;  in  fact 
he  and  his  companion  had  to  take  their  turn  with  a 
crowd  of  other  people,  and  the  time  they  were  kept 
waiting  seemed  very  long. 

At  last,  however,  they  were  ushered  into  the  study 
of  the  courteous  Briton  whose  difficult  and  sometimes 
exasperating  duty  it  is  to  look  after  the  rights  and 
interests  of  the  motley  world  composed  of  those 
Englishmen  and  Englishwomen  who  make  a  short 
or  long  sojourn  in  Paris.  Once  they  were  in  his 
presence  nothing  could  have  been  kinder  and  more 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     117 

considerate  than  the  British  Consul's  reception  of  the 
American  Senator  and  his  companion. 

In  the  Consular  branch  of  the  Diplomatic  Service 
the  post  of  Consul  in  the  greater  cities  of  the  civiHsed 
world  is  almost  invariably  given  to  an  ex-member  of 
the  Diplomatic  Corps — to  one,  that  is,  who  is  a  shrewd 
man  of  the  world  rather  than  a  trained  business  oflS- 
cial,  and  Senator  Burton  felt  it  to  be  a  comfort  indeed 
to  deal  with  such  a  one  rather  than  with  an  acute 
but  probably  conventionally-minded  man  of  com- 
mercial experience. 

The  Consul  was  moved  by  Mrs.  Dampier's  youth, 
her  beauty,  her  evident,  if  subdued  bewilderment  and 
distress.  She  told  her  story  very  clearly  and  simply, 
but  to  the  Senator's  excited  and  yes,  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted, suspicious  fancy,  she  seemed  to  slur  over,  as 
of  no  importance,  the  extraordinary  discrepancy  be- 
tween her  own  and  the  Poulains'  account  of  what 
had  happened  on  the  night  of  her  own  and  her  hus- 
band's arrival  in  Paris. 

The  Consul  asked  but  few  questions,  but  those 
were  pertinent  and  to  the  point. 

"I  am  glad,  Mrs.  Dampier,  that  you  did  not  come 
to  me  yesterday,"  he  said  at  last,  "for,  thanks,  as 
I  understand,  to  this  gentleman,  you  have  done 
everything  which  I  should  have  had  to  advise  you 
to  do." 

He  then  turned  more  particularly  to  his  American 
visitor: — "I  suppose  you  have  now  quite  convinced 


ii8    THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

yourself  that  no  kind  of  street  accident  befell  Mr. 
Dampier  yesterday  morning?" 

The  Senator  shook  his  head  dubiously;  there  was 
a  look  of  hesitation,  of  unease,  on  his  face. 

"Perhaps  it  would  be  as  well,"  said  the  Consul 
suavely,  "for  Mrs.  Dampier  to  go  and  wait  awhile  in 
the  next  room.  Then  you  and  I,  Mr.  Senator,  might 
go  into  the  matter  more  thoroughly?" 

Unsuspiciously  Nancy  Dampier  fell  in  with  the 
plan. 

And  then,  at  last.  Senator  Burton  was  able  to  open 
out  his  heart,  and,  as  the  British  Consul  listened  to 
the  American's  version  of  all  that  had  taken  place, 
when  he  reaHsed  how  entirely  the  story  of  this  young 
lady,  who  called  herself  Mrs.  Dampier,  was  uncor- 
roborated, his  face  became  graver  and  graver. 

"From  the  little  opportunity  I  have  had  of  judg- 
ing, she  impresses  me  as  being  a  truthful  woman," 
he  said  musingly.  "Still,  what  I  now  know  puts  a 
very  different  complexion  on  the  story  as  told  me 
just  now  by  her." 

"That  is  exactly  what  I  feel,"  said  the  Senator 
sighing,  "From  something  you  said  just  now  I  gather 
that  you  have  heard  of  this  Mr.  John  Dampier?" 

"Why,  yes,  indeed  I  have — I  know  his  name  as 
being  that  of  a  distinguished  Enghsh  artist  living  in 
Paris;  but  he  has  never  troubled  me  individually, 
and  I  can  answer  for  it  that  he  is  very  little  known  to 
our  colony  here.    He  evidently  lives  only  amongst 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     119 

the  French  painters  and  their  set — which  means  that 
to  all  intents  and  purposes  he  has  become  a  French- 
man!" The  Consul  shrugged  his  shoulders — racial 
prejudice  dies  hard. 

He  looked  doubtfully  at  his  visitor: — "You  see,  Mr. 
Senator,  if  this  lady's  tale  is  true,  if  the  poor  Httle 
woman  is  a  three  weeks'  bride,  Mr.  Dampier's  dis- 
appearance may  mean  a  good  many  things,  any  one 
of  which  is  bound  to  cause  her  pain  and  distress. 
I  do  not  think  it  Hkely  that  there  has  been  any  kind 
of  foul  play.  If,  as  Mrs.  Dampier  asserts,  he  had 
neither  money  nor  jewels  in  his  possession,  we  may 
dismiss  that  possibility  from  our  minds." 

*'If  anything  of  that  sort  has  happened — I  mean, 
if  there  has  been  foul  play,"  said  Senator  Burton 
firmly,  "then  I  would  stake  my  Hfe  that  neither  of 
the  Poulains  are  in  any  way  associated  with  it." 

"Quite  so.  Still,  as  Mrs.  Dampier  has  appealed 
to  me  very  properly  for  help,  these  hotel  people — if 
they  are  as  worthy  as  you  beheve  them  to  be — will 
not  mind  consenting  to  an  informal  interrogatory  from 
one  of  my  clerks.  I  have  here  a  sharp  young  fellow 
who  knows  Enghsh  as  well  as  he  does  French.  I'll 
send  him  back  with  you.  He  can  take  down  the  Pou- 
lains' story,  even  cross-examine  them  in  a  friendly 
manner.  Mrs.  Dampier  might  also  give  him  her 
version  of  what  took  place." 

Senator  Burton  uttered  a  hesitating  assent.  He 
knew  only  too  well  that  the  Poulains  would  greatly 
resent  the  proposed  interrogatory. 


I20     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

"One  word  more,  Mr.  Senator.  If  there  is  no 
news  of  this  Mr.  John  Dampier  by  to-morrow,  you 
must  persuade  Mrs.  Dampier  to  write,  or  even  to 
telegraph  for  her  friends.  For  one  thing,  it  isn't  at 
all  fair  that  all  this  trouble  should  fall  on  an  entire 
stranger,  on  one  not  even  her  own  countryman!  I 
cannot  help  seeing,  too,  that  you  do  not  altogether 
believe  in  Mrs.  Dampier  and  her  story.  You  can't 
make  up  your  mind — is  not  that  so?" 

The  American  Senator  nodded,  rather  shame- 
facedly. 

"I  might  advise  you  to  go  to  the  Prefecture  de 
Police,  nay,  I  might  communicate  with  them  myself, 
but  I  feel  that  in  the  interests  of  this  young  lady  it 
would  be  better  to  go  slow.  Mr.  Dampier  may  re- 
turn as  suddenly,  as  unexpectedly,  as  he  went.  And 
then  he  would  not  thank  us,  my  dear  sir,  for  having 
done  anything  to  turn  the  Paris  Police  searchlight 
on  his  private  hfe." 

The  Consul  got  up  and  held  out  his  hand.  ''For 
your  sake,  as  well  as  for  that  of  my  countrywoman, 
I  hope  most  sincerely  that  you  will  find  Mr.  Dampier 
safe  and  sound  when  you  get  back  to  the  Hotel  Saint 
Ange.  But  if  the  mystery  still  endures  to-morrow, 
then  you  really  must  persuade  this  poor  young  lady 
to  send  for  one  of  her  relatives — preferably,  I  need 
hardly  say,  a  man." 

"At  what  time  shall  I  expect  your  clerk?"  asked 
Senator  Burton.  "I  think  I  ought  to  prepare  the 
Poulains." 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     121 

"No,  there  I  think  you're  wrong!  Far  better  let 
him  go  back  with  you  now,  and  hear  what  they  have 
to  say.  Let  him  also  get  a  properly  signed  statement 
from  Mrs.  Dampier.  Then  he  can  come  back  here 
and  type  out  his  report  and  her  statement  for  refer- 
ence. That  can  do  no  harm,  and  may  in  the  future 
be  of  value." 

He  accompanied  the  American  Senator  to  the  door. 
*'I  wish  I  could  help  you  more,"  he  said  cordially. 
"Believe  me,  I  appreciate  more  than  I  can  say  your 
extraordinary  kindness  to  my  'subject.'  I  shall,  of 
course,  be  glad  to  know  how  you  get  on.  But  oh, 
if  you  knew  how  busy  we  are  just  now!  When  I 
think  of  how  we  are  regarded — of  how  I  read,  only 
the  other  day,  that  a  Consul  is  the  sort  of  good  fellov/ 
one  likes  to  make  comfortable  in  a  nice  little  place 
• — I  wish  the  man  who  wrote  that  could  have  my 
'nice  little  place'  for  a  week,  during  an  Exhibition 
Year!    I  think  he  would  soon  change  his  mind." 

Mrs.  Dampier  was  not  present  at  the,  to  Senator 
Burton,  odious  half-hour  which  followed  their  return 
to  the  Hotel  Saint  Ange. 

At  first  the  French  hotel-keeper  and  his  wife  re- 
fused to  say  anything  to  the  Consular  ofiicial.  Then, 
when  they  were  finally  persuaded  to  answer  his  ques- 
tions, they  did  so  as  curtly  and  disagreeably  as  pos- 
sible. Madame  Poulain  also  made  a  great  effort  to 
prevent  her  nephew,  young  Jules,  from  being  brought 


122     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

into  the  matter.  But  to  her  wrath  and  bitter  con- 
sternation, he,  as  well  as  her  husband  and  herself, 
was  made  to  submit  to  a  regular  examination  and 
cross-examination  as  to  what  had  followed  Mrs. 
Dampier's  arrival  at  the  Hotel  Saint  Ange. 

"Why  don't  you  send  for  the  police?"  she  cried  at 
last.  "We  should  be  only  too  glad  to  lay  all  the  facts 
before  them!" 

And  as  the  young  Frenchman,  after  his  further 
interview  with  Nancy,  was  being  speeded  on  his  way 
by  the  Senator,  "I'm  blessed  if  I  know  what  to  be- 
lieve!" he  observed  with  a  wink.  "It's  the  queerest 
story  I've  ever  come  across;  and  as  for  the  Poulains, 
it's  the  first  time  I've  ever  known  French  people  to  say 
they  would  like  to  see  the  police  brought  into  their 
private  affairs!  One  would  swear  that  all  the  par- 
ties concerned  were  telling  the  truth,  but  I  thought 
that  boy,  those  people's  nephew,  did  know  something 
more  than  he  said." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

The  third  morning  brought  no  news  of  the  missing 
man,  and  Senator  Burton,  noting  Gerald's  and  Daisy's 
preoccupied,  anxious  faces,  began  to  wonder  if  his 
life  would  ever  flow  in  pleasant,  normal  channels 
again. 

The  son  and  daughter  whom  he  held  so  dear,  whose 
habitual  companionship  was  so  agreeable  to  him, 
were  now  wholly  absorbed  in  Mrs.  Dampier  and 
her  affairs.  They  could  think  of  nothing  else,  and, 
when  they  were  alone  with  their  father,  they  talked 
of  nothing  else. 

The  Senator  remembered  with  special  soreness  what 
had  happened  the  afternoon  before,  just  after  he  had 
dismissed  the  clerk  of  the  British  Consul.  Feeling 
an  eager  wish  to  forget,  as  far  as  might  be  for  a  little 
while,  the  mysterious  business  in  which  they  were  all 
so  untowardly  concerned,  he  had  suggested  to  Daisy 
that  they  might  go  and  spend  a  quiet  hour  in  the  Art 
section  of  the  Exhibition.  But  to  his  great  discom- 
fiture, his  daughter  had  turned  on  him  with  a  look  of 
scorn,  almost  of  contempt: 

"Father!  Do  you  mean  me  to  go  out  and  leave 
123 


124     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

poor  little  Nancy  alone  in  her  dreadful  suspense  and 
grief — just  that  I  may  enjoy  myself?" 

And  the  Senator  had  felt  ashamed  of  his  selfish- 
ness. Yes,  it  had  been  most  unfeeling  of  him  to 
want  to  go  and  gaze  on  some  of  the  few  masterpieces 
American  connoisseurs  have  left  in  Europe,  while 
this  tragedy — for  he  realised  that  whatever  the  truth 
might  be  it  was  a  tragedy — was  still  in  being. 

It  was  good  to  know  that  thanks  to  the  British 
Consul's  word  of  advice  his  way,  to-day,  was  now 
clear.  The  time  had  come  when  he  must  advise  Mrs. 
Dampier  to  send  for  some  member  of  her  family. 
Without  giving  his  children  an  inkling  of  what  he 
was  about  to  say  to  their  new  friend,  Senator  Burton 
requested  Nancy,  in  the  presence  of  the  two  others, 
to  come  down  into  the  garden  of  the  Hotel  Saint 
Ange  in  order  that  they  might  discuss  the  situation. 

As  they  crossed  the  sun-flecked  cheerful  courtyard 
Nancy  pressed  unconsciously  nearer  her  companion, 
and  averted  her  eyes  from  the  kitchen  window  where 
the  hotel-keeper  and  his  wife  seemed  to  spend  so 
much  of  their  spare  time,  gazing  forth  on  their  do- 
main, watching  with  uneasy  suspicion  all  those  who 
came  and  went  from  the  Burtons'  apartments. 

As  the  young  Englishwoman  passed  through  into 
the  peaceful  garden  whose  charm  and  old-world 
sweetness  had  been  one  of  the  lures  which  had  drawn 
John  Dampier  to  what  was  now  to  her  a  fatal  place, 
she  felt  a  sensation  of  terrible  desolation  come  over 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     125 

her,  the  more  so  that  she  was  now  half  conscious  that 
Senator  Burton,  great  as  was  his  kindness,  kept  his 
judgment  in  suspense. 

They  sat  down  on  a  wooden  bench,  and  for  awhile 
neither  spoke.  "Have  you  found  out  anything?" 
she  asked  at  last  in  a  low  voice.  "I  think  by  your 
manner  that  you  have  found  out  something,  Mr. 
Burton — something  you  don't  wish  to  say  to  me  be- 
fore the  two  others?" 

He  looked  at  her,  surprised.  "No,"  he  said  sin- 
cerely, "that  is  not  so  at  all.  I  have  found  out  noth- 
ing, Mrs.  Dampier — would  that  I  had!  But  I  feel 
it  only  right  to  tell  you  that  the  moment  has  come 
when  you  should  communicate  with  your  friends. 
The  British  Consul  told  me  that  if  we  were  still  with- 
out news,  still  in  suspense,  this  morning,  he  would 
strongly  advise  that  you  send  for  someone  to  join 
you  in  Paris.  Surely  you  have  some  near  relation 
who  would  come  to  you?" 

Nancy  shook  her  head.  "No.  I  daresay  it  may 
seem  strange  to  you,  Senator  Burton,  but  I  have  no 
near  relations  at  all.  I  was  the  only  child  of  a  father 
and  mother  who,  in  their  turn,  were  only  children. 
I  have  some  very  distant  cousins,  a  tribe  of  acquaint- 
ances, a  few  very  kind  friends "  her  lips  quivered 

"but  no  one — no  one  of  whom  I  feel  I  could  ask  that 
sort  of  favour." 

Senator  Burton  glanced  at  her  in  dismay.  She 
looked  very  wan  and  fragile  sitting  there;  whatever 


126     THE  END   OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

the  truth,  he  could  not  but  feel  deeply  sorry  fox 
her. 

Suddenly  she  turned  to  him,  and  an  expression  of 
relief  came  over  her  sad  eyes  and  mouth.  "There 
is  someone,  Mr.  Burton,  someone  I  ought  to  have 
thought  of  before!  There  is  a  certain  Mr.  Stephens 
who  was  my  father's  friend  as  well  as  his  soHcitor; 
and  he  has  always  managed  all  my  money  matters. 
I'll  write  and  ask  INIr.  Stephens  if  he  can  come  to  me. 
He  was  more  than  kind  at  the  time  of  my  marriage, 
though  I'm  afraid  that  he  and  Jack  didn't  get  on 
very  well  together." 

She  looked  up  in  Senator  Burton's  face  with  a  be- 
wildered, pleading  look,  and  he  suddenly  reahsed  how 
difficult  a  task  such  a  letter  would  be  to  her,  sup- 
posing, that  is,  that  the  story  she  told,  the  story  in 
which  even  now  the  Senator  only  half  believed — 
were  true. 

"I'll  go  up  and  write  the  letter  now,"  she  said, 
and  together  they  both  went,  once  more,  indoors. 

But  Gerald  Burton,  when  he  heard  of  the  pro- 
posed letter  to  Mrs.  Dampier's  lawyer,  made  an  ab- 
rupt suggestion  which  both  the  Senator  and  Nancy 
welcomed  with  eagerness. 

"  Why  shouldn't  we  telephone  to  this  Mr.  Stephens?  " 
he  asked.  "That  would  save  a  day,  and  it  would  be 
far  easier  to  explain  to  him  all  that  has  happened  by 

word  of  mouth  than  in  a  letter "     He  turned  to 

Nancy,  and   his  voice   unconsciously  softened:   "If 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     127 

you  will  trust  me,  /  will  explain  the  situation  to  your 
friend,  Mrs.  Dampier." 

The  father  and  son's  drive  to  the  Central  Paris- 
London-Telephone  office  was  curiously  silent,  though 
both  the  older  and  the  younger  man  felt  full  of  un- 
wonted excitement. 

"Now,  at  last,  I  am  on  the  track  of  the  truth!" 
such  was  the  Senator's  secret  thought.  But  he  would 
not  have  been  very  much  surprised  had  no  such 
name  as  that  of  Davies  P.  Stephens,  Solicitor,  58 
Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  appeared  in  the  London  Tele- 
phone Directory.  But  yes,  there  the  name  was,  and 
Gerald  showed  it  to  his  father  with  a  gleam  of  triumph. 

"You  will  want  patience — a  good  deal  of  patience," 
said  the  attendant  mournfully. 

Gerald  Burton  smiled.  He  was  quite  used  to  long- 
distance telephoning  at  home.  "All  right!"  he  said 
cheerily.     "I've  plenty  of  patience!" 

But  though  the  young  man  claimed  to  have  plenty 
of  patience  he  felt  far  too  excited,  far  too  strung  up 
and  full  of  suspense,  for  the  due  exercise  of  that  dif- 
ficult virtue. 

The  real  reason  why  he  had  suggested  this  tele- 
phone message,  instead  of  a  letter  or  a  telegram,  was 
that  he  longed  for  his  father's  suspicions  to  be  set  at 
rest. 

Gerald  Burton  resented  keenly,  far  more  keenly 
than  did  his  sister,  the  Senator's  lack  of  belief  in 


128     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

Nancy  Dampier's  story.  He  himself  would  have 
staked  his  life  on  the  truthfulness  of  this  woman 
whom  he  had  only  known  three  days. 

At  last  the  sharp,  insistent  note  of  the  telephone 
bell  rang  out,  and  he  stept  up  into  the  call-box. 

"Mr.  Stephens'  ofl5ce?"  He  spoke  questioningly: 
and  after  what  seemed  a  long  pause  the  answer  came, 
mufifled  but  audible.  "Yes,  yes!  This  is  Mr.  Ste- 
phens' office.  Who  is  it  wants  us  from  Paris?  "  The 
question  was  put  in  a  Cockney  voice,  and  the  Lon- 
don twang  seemed  exaggerated  by  its  transmission 
over  those  miles  and  miles  of  wire  by  land,  under  the 
sea,  and  then  by  land  again. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  Mr.  Stephens  himself,"  said 
Gerald  Burton  very  distinctly. 

"Mr.  Stephens?  Yes,  he's  here  all  right.  I'll  take 
a  message." 

"Make  him  come  himself." 

"Yes,  he's  here.     Give  me  your  message "  the 

words  were  again  a  little  muffled. 

"I  can't  send  a  message.  You  must  fetch  him." 
Gerald  Burton's  stock  of  patience  was  giving  way. 
Again  there  was  an  irritating  pause,  but  it  was  broken 
at  last. 

"Who  is  it?  I  can't  fetch  him  if  you  won't  say 
who  you  are." 

"I  am  speaking  on  behalf  of  Mrs.  Dampier," 
said  Gerald  reluctantly.  Somehow  he  hated  uttering 
Nancy's  name  to  this  tiresome  unknown. 


THE  END   OF  HER  HONEYMOON     129 

And  then  began  an  absurd  interchange  of  words 
at  cross  purposes. 

*'Mr.  Larkspur?" 

"No,"  said  Gerald.     "Mrs.  Dampier." 

"Yes,"  said  the  clerk.  "Yes,  I  quite  understand. 
L.  for  London " 

Gerald  lost  his  temper — "D.  for  damn!"  he  shouted, 
^^  Dampier. ^^ 

And  then,  at  last,  with  a  shrill  laugh  that  sounded 
strange  and  eerie,  the  clerk  repeated,  ^'Dampier — 
Mr.  John  Dampier?  Yes,  sir.  What  can  we  do  for 
you?" 

''Mrs.  Dampier!" 

''Mrs.  Dampier?  Yes,  sir.  I'll  fetch  Mr.  Ste- 
phens." The  clerk's  voice  had  altered;  it  had  be- 
come respectful,  politely  enquiring. 

And  at  last  with  intense  relief,  Gerald  Burton  heard 
a  low  clear,  incisive  voice  uttering  the  words:  "Is 
that  Mrs.  Dampier  herself  speaking?" 

Instinctively  Gerald's  own  voice  lowered.  "No, 
I  am  speaking  for  Mrs.  Dampier." 

The  English  lawyer's  voice  hardened,  or  so  it 
seemed  to  the  young  American.  It  became  many 
degrees  colder.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Dampier. 
Yes?    What  can  I  do  for  you?  " 

And  as  Gerald,  taken  oddly  aback  by  the  unseen 
man's  very  natural  mistake,  did  not  answer  for  a 
moment  or  two : 

"Nothing  wrong  with  Nancy,  I  hope?" 


I30     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

The  anxious  question  sounded  very,  very  clear. 

"There  is  something  very  wrong  with  Mrs.  Dampier 
— can  you  hear  me  clearly?" 

''Yes,  yes.    What  is  wrong  with  her? " 

"Mrs.  Dampier  is  in  great  trouble.  Mr.  Dampier 
has  disappeared." 

The  strange  thing  which  had  happened  was  told 
in  those  four  words,  but  Gerald  Burton  naturally  went 
on  to  explain,  or  rather  to  try  to  explain,  the  extraor- 
dinary situation  which  had  arisen,  to  Nancy's  law- 
yer and  friend. 

Mr.  Stephens  did  not  waste  any  time  in  exclama- 
tions of  surprise  or  pity.  Once  he  had  grasped  the 
main  facts,  his  words  were  few  and  to  the  point. 

"Tell  Mrs.  Dampier,"  he  said,  speaking  very  dis- 
tinctly, "that  if  she  has  no  news  of  her  husband  by 
Friday  I  will  come  myself  to  Paris.  I  cannot  do  so 
before.  Meanwhile,  I  strongly  advise  that  she,  or 
preferably  you  for  her,  communicate  with  the  police 
— try  and  see  the  Prefect  of  Police  himself.  I  myself 
once  obtained  much  courteous  help  from  the  Paris 
Prefect  of  PoHce." 

Gerald  stept  down  from  the  stuffy,  dark  tele- 
phone box.  He  turned  to  the  attendant: — "How 
much  do  I  owe  you?"  he  asked  briefly. 

"A  hundred  and  twenty  francs.  Monsieur,"  said 
the  man  suavely. 

The  Senator  drew  near.  "That  was  an  expensive 
suggestion  of  yours,  Gerald,"  he  observed  smilmg, 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     131 

as  the  other  put  down  six  gold  pieces.  And  then  he 
said,  "WeU?" 

''Well,  father,  there's  not  much  to  tell.  This  Mr. 
Stephens  will  come  over  on  Friday  if  there's  still  no 
news  of  Mr.  Dampier  by  then.  He  wants  us  to  go 
to  the  Prefecture  of  PoHce.  He  says  we  ought  to  try 
and  get  at  the  Prefect  of  PoHce  himself." 

There  came  a  long  pause:  the  two  were  walking 
along  a  crowded  street.  Suddenly  Gerald  stopped  and 
turned  to  the  Senator.  "Father,"  he  said  impul- 
sively, "I  suppose  that  now,  at  last,  you  do  believe 
Mrs.  Dampier's  story?" 

The  young  man  spoke  with  a  vehemence  and  depth 
of  feeling  which  disturbed  his  father.  What  a  good 
thing  it  was  that  this  English  lawyer  was  coming  to 
relieve  them  all  from  a  weight  and  anxiety  which  was 
becoming,  to  the  Senator  himself,  if  not  to  the  two 
younger  people,  quite  intolerable. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  am  of  course  glad  to 
know  that  everything,  so  far,  goes  to  prove  that  Mrs. 
Dampier's  account  of  herself  is  true." 

"That  being  so,  don't  you  think  the  Hotel  Saint 
Ange  ought  to  be  searched?" 

"Searched?"  repeated  Senator  Burton  slowly. 
"Searched  for  what?" 

"If  I  had  charge  of  this  business — I  mean  sole 
charge — the  first  thing  I  would  do  would  be  to  have 
the  Hotel  Saint  Ange  searched  from  top  to  bottom!" 
said  Gerald  vehemently. 


132     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

"Is  that  Mrs.  Dampier's  suggestion?" 

"No,  father,  it's  mine,  I  had  a  talk  with  that  boy 
Jules  last  night,  and  I'm  convinced  he's  lying.  There's 
another  thing  I  should  like  to  do.  I  should  hke  to  go 
to  the  office  of  the  'New  York  Herald'  and  enlist 
the  editor's  help.  I  would  have  done  it  long  ago  if 
this  man  Dampier  had  been  an  American." 

"And  you  would  have  done  a  very  foolish  thing, 
my  boy."  The  Senator  spoke  with  more  dry  decision 
than  was  his  wont.  "Come,  come,  Gerald,  you  and 
I  mustn't  quarrel  over  this  affair!  Let  us  think  of 
the  immediate  thing  to  do."  He  put  his  hand  on  his 
son's  arm. 

"Yes,  father?" 

"I  suppose  that  the  first  thing  to  do  is  to  take  this 
Mr.  Stephens'  advice?" 

"Why,  of  course,  father!  Will  you,  or  shall  I,  go 
to  the  Prefecture  of  Police?" 

"Well,  Gerald,  I  have  bethought  myself  of  that 
courteous  President  of  the  French  Senate  who  wrote 
me  such  a  pleasant  note  when  we  first  arrived  in  Paris 
this  time.  No  doubt  he  would  give  me  a  personal 
introduction  to  the  Prefect  of  Police." 

"Why,  father,  that's  a  first  rate  idea!  Hadn't  you 
better  go  right  now  and  get  it?" 

"Yes,  perhaps  I  had;  and  meanwhile  you  can  tell 
the  poor  little  woman  that  her  friend  will  be  here  on 
Friday." 

"Yes,  I  will.     And  father?     May  I  tell  Daisy  that 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     133 

now  you  agree  with  me  about  Mrs.  Dampier — that 
you  no  longer  believe  the  Poulains'  story?  " 

"No,"  said  Senator  Burton  a  little  sternly.  "You 
are  to  say  nothing  of  the  sort,  Gerald.  I  have  only 
known  this  girl  three  days — I  have  known  the  Pou- 
lains nine  years.  Of  course  it's  a  great  relief  to  me 
to  learn  that  Mrs.  Dampier's  account  of  herself  is 
true — so  far  as  you've  been  able  to  ascertain  such  a 
fact  in  a  few  minutes'  conversation  with  an  unknown 
man  over  the  telephone — but  that  does  not  affect  my 
good  opinion  of  the  Poulains." 

And  on  this  the  father  and  son  parted,  for  the  first 
time  in  their  joint  lives,  seriously  at  odds  the  one 
with  the  other. 

"Give  you  an  introduction  to  our  Prefect  of  Police? 
Why,  certainly!" 

The  white-haired  President  of  the  French  Senate 
looked  curiously  at  the  American  gentleman  who  had 
sought  him  out  at  the  early  hour  of  eleven  o'clock. 

"You  will  find  Monsieur  Beaucourt  a  charming 
man,"  he  went  on.  "I  hear  nothing  but  good  of  the 
way  he  does  his  very  difficult  work.  He  is  a  type  to 
whom  you  are  used  in  America,  my  dear  Senator,  but 
whom  we  perhaps  too  often  lack  in  France  among 
those  who  govern  us.  Monsieur  Beaucourt  is  a  strong 
man — a  man  who  takes  his  own  line  and  sticks  to  it. 
I  was  told  only  the  other  day  that  crime  had  greatly 
diminished  in  our  city  since  he  became  Prefect.     He 


134     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

is  thoroughly  trusted  by  his  subordinates,  and  you 
can  imagine  what  that  means  when  one  remembers 
that  our  beautiful  Paris  is  the  resort  of  all  the  inter- 
national rogues  of  Europe.  And  if  they  tease  us  by 
their  presence  at  ordinary  times,  you  can  imagine 
what  it  is  like  during  an  Exhibition  Year!" 


CHAPTER  DC 

In  all  French  public  offices  there  is  a  strange  mingling 
of  the  sordid  and  of  the  magnificent. 

The  Paris  Prefecture  of  Police  is  a  huge,  quadran- 
gular building,  containing  an  infinity  of  bare,  and  to 
tell  the  truth,  shabby,  airless  rooms;  yet  when  Sen- 
ator Burton  had  handed  in  his  card  and  the  note 
from  the  President  of  the  French  Senate,  he  was  taken 
rapidly  down  a  long  corridor,  and  ushered  into  a 
splendid  apartment,  of  which  the  walls  were  hung 
with  red  velvet,  and  which  might  have  been  a  recep- 
tion room  in  an  Itahan  Palace  rather  than  the  study 
of  a  French  poUce  official. 

"Monsieur  le  Prefet  will  be  back  from  dejeuner  in 
a  few  minutes,"  said  the  man,  softly  closing  the  door. 

The  Senator  looked  round  him  with  a  feehng  of 
keen  interest  and  curiosity.  After  the  weary,  baf- 
fling hours  of  fruitless  effort  in  which  he  had  spent  the 
last  three  days,  it  was  more  than  pleasant  to  find 
himself  at  the  fountainhead  of  reliable  information. 

Since  the  far-off  days  when,  as  a  boy,  he  had  been 
thrilled  by  the  brilHant  detective  stories  of  which 
French  writers,  with  the  one  outstanding  exception  of 
Poe,  then  had  a  monopoly,  there  had  never  faded  from 

135 


136     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

Senator  Burton's  mind  that  first  vivid  impression  of 
the  power,  the  might,  the  keen  inteUigence,  and  yes, 
of  the  unscrupulousness,  of  the  Paris  pohce. 

But  now,  having  penetrated  into  the  inner  shrine 
of  this  awe-inspiring  organism,  he  naturally  preferred 
to  think  of  the  secret  autocratic  powers,  and  of  the 
almost  uncanny  insight  of  those  to  whom  he  was 
about  to  make  appeal.  Surely  they  would  soon  probe 
the  mystery  of  John  Dampier's  disappearance. 

The  door  opened  suddenly,  and  the  Paris  Prefect  of 
PoHce  walked  into  the  room.  He  was  holding  Sen- 
ator Burton's  card,  and  the  letter  of  introduction 
with  which  that  card  had  been  accompanied,  in  his 
sinewy  nervous  looking  hand. 

Bowing,  smiling,  apologising  with  more  earnest- 
ness than  was  necessary  for  the  few  moments  the 
American  Senator  had  had  to  await  his  presence,  the 
Prefect  motioned  his  guest  to  a  chair. 

"I  am  very  pleased,"  he  said  in  courtly  tones,  "to 
put  myself  at  the  disposal  of  a  member  of  the  Amer- 
ican Senate.  Ah,  sir,  your  country  is  a  wonderful 
country!  In  a  sense,  the  parent  of  France — for  was 
not  America  the  first  great  nation  to  become  a  Re- 
public?" 

Senator  Burton  bowed,  a  Uttle  awkwardly,  in  re- 
sponse to  this  flowery  sentiment. 

He  was  telling  himself  that  Monsieur  Beaucourt  was 
quite  unlike  the  picture  he  had  mentally  formed,  from 
youth  upwards,  of  the  Paris  Prefect  of  Police. 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     137 

There  was  nothing  formidable,  nothing  for  the  mat- 
ter of  that  in  the  least  awe-inspiring,  about  this  tired, 
amiable-looking  man.  The  Prefect  was  also  lacking 
in  the  alert,  authoritative  manner  which  the  la>Tnan 
all  the  world  over  is  apt  to  associate  with  the  word 
"pohce." 

Monsieur  Beaucourt  sat  down  behind  his  ornate 
buhl  writing-table,  and  shooting  out  his  right  hand 
he  pressed  an  electric  bell. 

With  startling  suddenness,  a  panel  disappeared 
noiselessly  into  the  red  velvet  draped  wall,  and  in 
the  aperture  so  formed  a  good-looking  young  man 
stood  smiling. 

"My  secretary.  Monsieur  le  Senateur — my  secre- 
tary, who  is  also  my  nephew." 

The  Senator  rose  and  bowed. 

"Andre?  Please  say  that  I  am  not  to  be  disturbed 
till  this  gentleman's  visit  is  concluded."  The  young 
man  nodded:  and  then  he  withdrew  as  quickly,  as 
silently,  as  he  had  appeared;  and  the  panel  slipped 
noiselessly  back  behind  him. 

"And  now  tell  me  exactly  what  it  is  that  you  wish 
me  to  do  for  you,"  said  the  Prefect,  with  a  weary  sigh, 
which  was,  however,  softened  by  a  pleasant  smile. 
"We  are  not  as  omnipotent  as  our  enemies  make  us 
out  to  be,  but  still  we  can  do  a  good  deal,  and  we  could 
do  a  good  deal  more  were  it  not  for  the  Press!  Ah, 
Monsieur  le  Senateur,  that  is  the  only  thing  I  do  not 
like  about  your  great  coimtry.    Your  American  Press 


138     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

sets  so  bad,  so  very  bad,  an  example  to  our  poor  old 
world!" 

A  thin  streak  of  colour  came  into  Monsieur  Beau- 
court's  cheek,  a  gleam  of  anger  sparkled  in  his  grey 
eyes. 

"Yes,  greatly  owing  to  the  bad  example  set  in 
America,  and  of  late  in  England  too,  quite  a  number 
of  misguided  people  nowadays  go  to  the  Press  before 
they  come  to  us  for  redress!  All  too  soon,"  he  shook 
a  warning  finger,  "they  find  they  have  entered  a 
mouse- trap  from  which  escape  is  impossible.  They 
rattle  at  the  bars — but  no,  they  are  caught  fast! 
Once  they  have  brought  those  indefatigable,  those 
indiscreet  reporters  on  the  scene,  it  is  too  late  to  draw 
back.  They  find  all  their  most  private  affairs  dragged 
into  the  light  of  day,  and  even  we  can  do  very  little 
for  them  then!" 

Senator  Burton  nodded  gravely.  He  wished  his 
son  were  there  to  hear  these  words. 

"And  now  let  us  return  to  our  muttons,"  said  the 
Prefect  leaning  forward.  "I  understand  from  the 
President  of  the  Senate  that  you  require  my  help  in 
a  rather  delicate  and  mysterious  matter." 

"I  do  not  know  that  the  matter  is  particularly 
delicate,  though  it  is  certainly  mysterious,"  and  then 
Senator  Burton  explained,  in  as  few  and  clear  words 
as  possible,  the  business  which  had  brought  him  there 
— the  disappearance,  three  days  before,  of  the  English 
artist,  John  Dampier,  and  of  the  present  sad  plight 
of  Dampier's  wife. 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     139 

Monsieur  Beaucourt  threw  himself  back  in  his 
chair.  His  face  lit  up,  it  lost  its  expression  of  apa- 
thetic fatigue;  and  his  first  quick  questions  showed 
him  a  keen  and  clever  cross-examiner. 

At  once  he  seized  on  the  real  mystery,  and  that 
though  the  Senator  had  not  made  more  of  it  than  he 
could  help.  That  was  the  discrepancy  in  the  ac- 
count given  by  the  Poulains  and  by  Mrs.  Dampier 
respectively  as  to  the  lady's  arrival  at  the  hotel. 

But  even  Monsieur  Beaucourt  failed  to  elicit  the 
fact  that  Senator  Burton's  acquaintance  with  Mrs. 
Dampier  was  of  such  short  standing.  He  assumed 
that  she  was  a  friend  of  the  Burton  family,  and  the 
Senator  allowed  the  assumption  to  go  by  default. 

"The  story  you  have  told  me,"  the  Prefect  said  at 
last,  *'is  a  very  curious  story.  Monsieur  le  Senateur. 
But  here  we  come  across  stranger  things  every  day. 
Still,  certain  details  make  the  disappearance  of  this 
EngHsh  gentleman  rather  stranger  than  usual.  I 
gather  that  the  vanished  man's  wife  is  a  charming 
person?" 

"Extremely  charming!"  said  the  Senator  quickly. 
"And  I  should  say  quite  truthful — in  fact  this  dis- 
crepancy between  her  account  and  that  of  the  Pou- 
lains has  worried  and  perplexed  me  very  much." 

"Do  not  let  that  worry  you,"  said  the  other 
thoughtfully.  "If  this  young  lady,  your  friend,  be 
telling  the  truth,  it  is  very  probable  that  the  Poulains 
began  to  lie  in  the  hope  of  avoiding  trouble  for  them- 
selves: having  lied  they  found  themselves  obliged  to 


I40     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

stick  to  their  story.  You  see  just  now  our  hotel-keep- 
ers are  coining  gold,  and  they  do  not  Hke  this  very 
pleasant  occupation  of  theirs  interrupted,  for  even  the 
best  of  reasons.  If  this  gentleman  left  the  hotel  the 
same  night  that  he  arrived  there — as  I  can  see  you 
yourself  are  inclined  to  beHeve,  Monsieur  le  Sena- 
teur — then  you  may  be  sure  that  the  hotel  people, 
even  if  they  did  see  him  for  a  few  moments,  would 
not  care  to  admit  that  they  had  done  so.  I  therefore 
advise  that  we  put  them  and  their  account  of  what 
took  place  out  of  our  minds.  From  what  you  tell 
me,  you  have  already  done  what  I  may  call  the  usual 
things?" 

"Yes,"  said  Senator  Burton  frankly.  "My  son 
and  I  have  done  everything  which  common  sense 
could  suggest  to  us.  Thus  we  at  once  gave  a  de- 
scription of  the  missing  man  to  the  police  station  of 
the  quarter  where  both  the  Hotel  Saint  Ange  and  Mr. 
Dampier's  studio  are  situated.  But,  owing  doubt- 
less to  the  fact  that  all  your  officials  are  Just  now  very 
busy  and  very  overworked,  we  did  not  get  quite  as 
much  attention  paid  to  the  case  as  I  should  have 
liked.  I  do  not  feel  quite  sure  even  now  that  the 
missing  man  did  not  meet  with  a  street  accident." 

"I  can  ascertain  that  for  you  in  a  moment." 

Again  the  Prefect  pressed  a  pedal.  A  panel,  and 
this  time  a  different  panel  from  the  first,  slid  back, 
and  again  the  secretary  appeared. 

Monsieur  Beaucourt  said  a  brief  word  or  two,  and  a 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     141 

few  moments  later  a  tabulated  list,  written  in  roimd- 
hand,  lay  before  him. 

"Here  are  all  the  accidents  which  have  occurred 
in  Paris  during  the  last  ninety  hours." 

He  ran  his  eyes  down  the  list;  and  then,  rising, 
handed  the  sheets  to  Senator  Burton. 

"I  think  this  disposes  of  the  idea  that  an  accident 
may  have  befallen  your  friend  in  the  streets,"  said 
the  Prefect  briefly. 

And  the  Senator,  handing  back  the  list,  acknowl- 
edged that  this  was  so. 

*'May  I  ask  if  you  know  much  of  the  habits  and 
way  of  life  of  this  vanished  bridegroom?"  asked  the 
Prefect  thoughtfully.  "I  understand  he  belongs  to 
the  British  Colony  here." 

"Mr.  Dampier  was  not  my  friend,"  said  the  Sen- 
ator hurriedly.     "It  is  Mrs.  Dampier " 

"Ah,  yes — I  understand — the  three  weeks'  bride? 
It  is  she  you  know.  Well,  Monsieur  le  Senateur,  the 
best  thing  you  and  I  can  do  is  to  look  at  the  artist's 
dossier.  That  is  quite  likely  to  provide  us  with  a 
useful  clue." 

The  Senator  felt  a  thrill  of  anticipatory  interest. 
All  his  Hfe  he  had  heard  of  the  dossiers  kept  by  the 
Paris  police,  of  how  every  dweller  in  the  great  city, 
however  famous,  however  obscure,  had  a  record  in 
which  the  most  intimate  details  of  their  lives  were  set 
down  in  black  and  white.  Somehow  he  had  never 
quite  believed  in  these  French  police  dossiers. 


142     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

"Surely  you  are  not  likely  to  have  a  dossier  of  Mr. 
Dampier?"  he  exclaimed,  "he  is  a  British  subject, 
and,  as  far  as  I  know,  a  perfectly  respectable  man." 

The  Prefect  smiled.  "The  mere  fact  that  he  is  an 
EngHsh  subject  living  in  Paris  entitles  him  to  a  dos- 
sier. In  fact  everybody  who  is  anybody  in  any  kind 
of  society,  from  that  frequented  by  the  Apaches  to 
that  of  the  Faubourg  Saint  Germain,  has  a  dossier. 
And  from  what  you  tell  me  this  artist,  who  won  a 
Salon  medal,  and  who  has  already  had  a  distinguished 
career  as  a  painter,  is  certainly  'somebody.'  Now, 
please  tell  me  exactly  the  way  to  spell  his  surname 
and  his  Christian  name.  English  names  are  so  per- 
plexing." 

Very  clearly  the  Senator  spelt  out — first  the  word 
"John"  and  then  the  word  "Dampier." 

And  as,  under  his  dictation,  the  Prefect  of  Police 
wrote  the  two  distinctive  names  of  the  missing  man, 
there  came  a  look  of  frowning  perplexity  and  inde- 
cision over  his  face. 

"It's  an  odd  thing,"  he  muttered,  "but  I  seem  to 
have  heard  that  name  quite  lately,  and  in  some 
strange  connection!  Now  what  could  it  have  been? 
As  you  probably  know,  Monsieur  le  Senateur,  there 
is  a  French  form  of  that  name,  Dampierre.  But  no 
— it  is  that  John  which  puzzles  me — I  am  quite  sure 
that  I  have  heard  the  name  'John  Dampier^  quite 
recently." 

"Isn't  it  likely,"  suggested  the  Senator,  "that  the 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     143 

man's  disappearance  has  been  reported  to  you?  My 
son  and  I  have  done  everything  in  our  power  to  make 
the  fact  known,  and  Mr.  Dampier's  name  and  par- 
ticulars as  to  his  appearance  have  been  at  the  Morgue 
since  yesterday." 

''Well,  that's  possible,  of  course.  Just  now  my 
poor  head  has  to  hold  far  more  than  it  was  ever  meant 
to  do.  The  presence  of  so  many  royal  personages 
in  Paris  always  means  extra  trouble  for  me — espe- 
cially when  they  are  here  'incognito.'  By  the  way, 
it  would  amuse,  perhaps  shock  you,  to  see  the  dos- 
siers of  some  of  these  Princes  and  Grand  Dukes! 
But  these  are,  of  course,  kept  very  secret.  Mean- 
while, I  must  not  forget  Mr.  John  Dampier." 

This  time  the  Prefect  did  not  ring  his  bell.  In- 
stead he  blew  down  a  tube.  "You  would  scarcely 
beheve  it,"  he  said,  looking  up  suddenly,  "but  these 
tubes  have  only  just  been  installed !  I  had  a  regular 
battle  over  the  matter  with  the  Treasury.  But  now 
that  the  battle  is  won,  I  forget  half  the  time  that 
the  tube  is  there !  Picot?  Please  send  me  the  dossier 
of  an  artist-painter  called  John  Dampier,"  he  spelt 
the  names.  "English  subject;  hving  in  Impasse  des 
Nonnes.     I  have  an  impression  that  we  have  had  that 

name  before  us  during  the  last  week  or  so Have 

you  any  recollection  of  it?  " 

He  put  the  tube  to  his  ear. 

And  then  the  American  Senator,  looking  at  the 
Paris  Prefect  of  Police,  was  struck  by  a  sudden  change 


144     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

which  came  over  the  listener's  face.  There  gathered 
on  Monsieur  Beaucourt's  features  a  look  of  quick 
surprise,  followed — yes,  unmistakably — by  a  frown 
of  dismay. 

Putting  his  free  hand  over  the  tube,  he  withdrew 
it  from  his  ear  and  applied  it  to  his  lips.  "Yes, 
yes,"  he  said  rapidly,  "enough,  enough!  I  quite 
imderstand.  It  is,  as  you  say,  very  natural  that  I 
should  have  forgotten." 

And  then  he  looked  quickly  across  at  the  Senator. 
"You  are  right,  Monsieur  le  Senateur:  Mr.  Dam- 
pier's  name  was  put  before  me  only  yesterday  as  that 
of  an  Englishman  who  had  disappeared  from  his 
hotel.  But  I  took  him  to  be  a  passing  visitor.  You 
know  quite  a  number  of  the  tourists  brought  by 
the  Exhibition  disappear,  sometimes  for  two  or  three 
days — sometimes — well,  for  ever!  That,  of  course, 
means  they  have  left  Paris  suddenly,  having  got  into 
what  the  English  call  a  'scrape.'  In  such  a  case  a 
man  generally  thinks  it  better  to  go  home — wiser  if 
sadder  than  when  he  came." 

There  followed  a  pause. 

"Well,  Monsieur  le  Senateur,"  said  the  Prefect, 
rising  from  his  chair.  "You  may  rest  assured  that 
I  will  do  everything  that  is  in  my  power  to  find  your 
friend." 

"But  the  dossier ?^^  exclaimed  Senator  Burton.  "I 
thought,  Monsieur  le  Prefet,  that  I  was  to  see  Mr. 
Dampier's  dossier?" 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     145 

"Oh,  to  be  sure — yes!    I  beg  your  pardon." 

Again  he  whistled  down  the  tube.  "Picot?"  he 
exclaimed,  "I  still  require  that  dossier  I  Why  am  I 
kept  waiting  in  this  way?  " 

He  listened  for  a  few  moments  to  what  his  invisible 
subordinate  had  to  say,  and  then  again  he  spoke  down 
the  funnel,  and  with  a  certain  pettish  impatience. 
"The  last  entry  is  of  no  importance — understand 
me — no  importance  at  all!  The  gentleman  for  whose 
benefit  I  require  the  dossier  already  knows  of  this 
Mr.  Dampier's  disappearance." 

A  moment  later  a  clerk  knocked  at  the  door,  and 
appeared  with  a  blue  envelope  which  he  laid  with  a 
deep  bow  on  the  Prefect's  table. 

It  was  not  a  very  large  envelope,  and  yet  Senator 
Burton  was  surprised  at  its  size,  and  at  the  num- 
ber of  slips  of  paper  the  Prefect  of  Police  withdrew 
from  it. 

"I  do  not  suppose,  Monsieur  le  Senateur,  that  you 
have  ever  seen  one  of  our  dossiers — in  fact  I  may  tell 
you  that  very  few  people  outside  this  building  ever 
do  see  one.  By  the  way,  a  great  deal  of  nonsense 
is  talked  about  them.  Roughly  speaking,  a  dossier 
is  not  a  history  of  the  individual  in  question;  it  sim- 
ply records  what  is  being  said  of  him.  For  instance, 
the  day  that  I  became  Prefect  of  Pohce  my  dossier 
was  brought  to  me " 

He  smiled  wearily. 

"Your  dossier?"  repeated  the  Senator  in  amaze- 
ment. 


146     THE  END   OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

"Yes,  my  dossier.  I  have  had  it  bound,  and  I  keep 
it  as  a  curiosity.  Everything  that  had  ever  been 
written  about  me  in  the  days  when  I  was  a  Member 
of  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  is  there.  And  what 
really  made  me  feel  angry  was  the  fact  that  I  had 
been  confused  with  more  than  one  of  my  namesakes, 
in  fact  certain  misdeeds  that  these  worthy  folk  had 
committed  were  actually  registered  in  my  dossier! " 

He  stopped  speaking  for  a  moment,  and  took  up 
the  blue  envelope. 

"But  now  let  us  consider  this  Mr.  John  Dampier. 
You  will  see  that  he  bears  the  number  '16909,'  and 
that  his  envelope  is  blue.  Had  this  gentleman  ever 
had  anything  to  do  with  the  police,  were  he,  to  put  it 
plainly,  of  the  criminal  class,  this  envelope  would  be 
yellow.  As  for  the  white  envelopes,  they,  Monsieur 
le  Senateur,  have  to  deal  with  a  very  different  sort 
of  individual.  We  class  them  briefly  under  the  gen- 
eral word  'Morals.' " 

As  he  spoke  the  Prefect  was  looking  swiftly  through 
the  Dampier  dossier,  and  not  till  he  had  glanced  at 
every  item  did  he  hand  the  envelope  to  his  American 
visitor. 

Senator  Burton  could  not  but  admire  the  intelli- 
gent way  the  dossier  had  been  prepared,  and  kept  up 
to  date. 

On  the  top  sheet  were  carefully  gummed  various 
entries  from  the  biographical  dictionaries  in  which 
mention  was  made  of  John  Dampier  and  his  career. 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     147 

There  followed  a  eulogistic  newspaper  article  con- 
taining an  account  of  the  picture  which  had  won  the 
artist  his  Medaille  d'Honneur  at  the  Salon  two  years 
before.  Then  came  a  piece  of  foolscap  headed  "  Gen- 
eral remarks,"  and  here  were  written  the  following 
words: — "Lives  quietly;  is  popular  with  his  fellow 
artists;  has  few  debts;  does  not  frequent  the  British 
Colony." 

The  Senator  looked  up  quickly.  "Well,  there  is 
not  much  to  learn  from  this!"  he  said.  And  then, 
"I  notice,  Monsieur  le  Prefet,  that  there  was  another 
entry  which  has  been  removed." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Prefect.  "That  last  entry  was 
only  added  the  day  before  yesterday,  and  told  of 
Monsieur  Dampier's  disappearance.  It  is  being  writ- 
ten up  now,  Monsieur  le  Senateur,  with  a  note  ex- 
plaining your  kind  interest  in  him,  and  teUing  of  your 
visit  to-day." 

Senator  Burton  rose  from  Ws  chair.  He  could  not 
have  told  exactly  why,  but  he  had  the  impression  that 
his  courteous  host  had  suddenly  become  anxious  to 
get  rid  of  him. 

But  this  impression  was  evidently  erroneous.  Even 
after  they  had  cordially  shaken  hands,  the  Prefect 
of  Police  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  let  him  go. 

"One  moment.  Monsieur  le  Senateur?"  he  looked 
earnestly  into  the  American's  frank  face.  "I  feel 
bound  to  tell  you  that  I  am  convinced  there  is  more 
in  this  mysterious  disappearance  than  appears  on 


14S    THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

the  surface.  I  fear — I  greatly  fear — that  this  Mr. 
Dampier  has  vanished  of  his  own  free  will,"  he  spoke 
with  evident  reluctance,  "and  that  his  poor  young 
wife  will  never  see  him  again.  As  I  think  I  said 
before,  the  pubHc,  especially  the  vulgar,  ignorant  pub- 
lic, credit  us  with  powers  we  are  far  from  possessing. 
It  is  possible  that  this  gentleman  does  not  care  for  the 
trammels  of  married  Ufe,  and  that  his  bride,  however 
charming  she  may  be,  has  disappointed  him.  Such 
cases  are  commoner  than  you  might  think  possi- 
ble, especially  among  English  and  American  people. 
You,  in  your  country,  if  you  will  forgive  my  sajdng  so, 
marry  with  such  reckless  haste;  and  that  often  means 
repenting  at  bitter  leisure."  The  Prefect's  voice  low- 
ered, a  look  of  real  distress  came  over  his  face.  "Ah! 
what  tales  I  could  tell  you — what  fearful  domestic 
tragedies  have  been  confided  to  me  here,  within  these 
four  walls!  No  doubt  for  an  artist  this  Mr.  John 
Dampier  was  a  very  good  fellow — what  in  England 
they  call  'respectable  enough.'  But  still,  think  what 
painters  are  like!  Think  of  how  Bohemian,  how  care- 
less is  their  life,  compared  with  that  of  the  man  who 
has  a  regular  occupation "  Monsieur  de  Beau- 
court  shook  his  head  gloomily — "  In  most  of  these 
stories  of  sudden  disappearance  there  is  no  crime,  as 
the  relations  are  so  apt  to  think  there  is.  No,  Mon- 
sieur le  Senateur,  there  is  simply — a  woman!  Some- 
times it  is  a  new  friend — but  far  oftener  it  is  an  old 
friend." 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     149 

There  was  a  pause.  "God  forbid,"  said  the  Pre- 
fect suddenly,  "that  I  should  accuse  this  unfortunate 
man  of  anything  heinous!  But — but.  Monsieur  le 
Senateur?  You  must  have  learnt  through  our  Press, 
through  those  of  our  newspapers  which  dehght  in 
dragging  family  scandals  to  light,  the  amazing  story 
of  Count  Breville." 

The  Senator  was  impressed,  in  spite  of  himself,  by 
the  other's  manner. 

"I  don't  remember  the  name,"  he  said  thought- 
fuUy. 

"Count  Breville,"  said  the  Prefect  slowly,  "was  a 
man  of  deservedly  high  reputation,  in  fact  one  of  the 
pillars  of  the  RoyaHst  party.  He  had  a  wife  who 
adored  him,  a  large  family  whom  he  adored,  and  they 
all  lived  an  idyllic  country  life.  Well,  one  day  the 
Count's  coat,  his  hat,  his  pocket-book  (which  was 
known  to  have  been  full  of  bank-notes,  but  which 
was  now  empty)  were  found  on  the  parapet  of  a 
bridge  near  his  chateau.  It  was  given  out — it  was 
believed  that  a  dastardly  crime  had  been  committed. 
And  then,  by  a  mere  accident,  it  was  brought  to  my 
notice — for  there  was  nothing  in  the  Count's  dossier 
which  could  have  led  me  to  suspect  such  a  thing — 
that  a  charming  governess  who  had  been  in  the  em- 
ployment of  his  Countess  for  some  four  or  five  years 
had  suddenly  left  to  join  her  family  in  the  New  World, 
and  that  her  travelling  companion  was  strangely  like 
her  late  employer!" 


I50     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

"Yes,"  said  Senator  Burton  uncomfortably,  "I 
think  I  do  remember  something  of  that  story  now." 

"All  the  world  was  let  into  the  secret,"  said  the 
Prefect  regretfully,  "for  the  family  had  confided, 
from  the  first,  in  the  Press.  They  thought — what 
did  they  not  think,  poor,  foolish  people?  Among 
other  things  they  actually  believed  that  the  Count 
had  been  murdered  for  political  reasons.  But  no, 
the  explanation  was  far  more  simple.  That  high- 
minded  man,  that  Christian  gentleman,  this  father 
x3f  charming  children  whom  he  apparently  adored, 
had  gone  off  under  a  false  name,  leaving  everything 
that  was  dear  to  him,  including  his  large  fortune,  to 
throw  in  his  lot  with  the  governess!" 

The  Prefect  came  closer  to  Senator  Burton.  He 
even  lowered  his  voice.  "I  had  the  Countess  here. 
Monsieur  le  Senateur,  in  this  room.  Oh,  what  a 
touching,  what  a  moving  interview!  The  poor  woman 
was  only  anxious  to  have  back  her  husband  with 
no  questions  asked,  with  no  cruel  reminders.  And 
now  he  is  back — a  broken  man.  But  had  he  been  an 
artist.  Monsieur  le  Senateur,  would  the  Count  have 
been  traced?  Of  course  not!  Would  he  have  re- 
turned? No,  indeed!  The  Prefect  of  Police  can  do 
many  things,  Monsieur  le  Senateur,  but  as  I  said  just 
now,  he  cannot  force  an  unwilling  husband  back  to 
his  wife,  especially  if  that  husband  has  already 
crossed  the  frontier.  Come,  Monsieur  le  Senateur, 
confess  that  some  such  explanation  of  Mr.  Dampier's 
disappearance  has  already  occurred  to  you?" 


THE  END   OF  HER  HONEYMOON     151 

"Well,"  said  Senator  Burton  slowly,  "I  confess 
that  some  such  thought  has  crossed  my  mind.  But 
in  that  case  what  a  tragic  fate  for  the  poor  young 
wife!" 

"Bah!  Do  you  know  the  saying: — 'Widowhood 
is  the  Marshal's  baton  every  woman  carries  in  her 
knapsack!'" 

Senator  Burton  could  not  help  smiling.  Then  he 
grew  very  grave.  "But  Mrs.  Dampier,  in  the  case 
you  suppose,  would  not  be  a  widow.  Monsieur  le 
Prefet:  she  would  be  neither  maid,  wife,  nor  widow." 

The  Prefect  looked  surprised.  "Ah  yes!  The 
EngHsh  divorce  laws  are  very  conservative.  But  I 
suppose  in  the  end  such  a  marriage  would  be  an- 
nulled?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Senator  Burton  indifferently. 

"I  wish  I  could  help  you  more,"  said  the  Prefect 
sohcitously.  He  really  wished  he  could,  for  he  Hked 
his  kindly  visitor.  "Can  you  suggest  anything  that 
we  could  do  to  help  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Senator  frankly.  "My  son.  Mon- 
sieur le  Prefet,  has  not  the  same  trust  in  the  hotel- 
keeper,  Poulain,  that  I  feel.  Neither,  I  am  bound  to 
tell  you,  has  Mrs.  Dampier.  I  think  it  would  be  a 
relief  to  the  poor  young  lady,  if  the  hotel  could  be 
searched  for  some  trace  of  Mr.  Dampier's  sojourn 
there.  You  see  Mrs.  Dampier  is  convinced — or  seems 
to  be — that  her  husband  spent  a  night  there." 

"Nothing  is  easier  than  to  have  the  place  searched," 


152     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

said  the  Prefect  quickly.  "I  will  arrange  for  it  to 
be  done  to-morrow  morning  at  eleven.  Perhaps  you, 
Monsieur  le  Senateur,  will  inform  the  hotel  people 
that  a  Perquisition  is  about  to  take  place." 


CHAPTER  X 

As  he  walked  away  from  the  Prefecture  of  Police, 
Senator  Burton  told  himself  that  the  French  were 
certainly  a  curiously  casual  people. 

How  strange  that  the  Prefect  should  have  asked 
him  to  break  the  news  of  what  was  to  happen  at 
eleven  o'clock  the  next  morning  to  the  Poulains !  In 
America — and  he  supposed  in  England  also — the 
hotel-keeper  would  have  received  a  formal  notifica- 
tion of  the  fact  that  his  house  was  about  to  be  searched, 
or,  in  the  case  that  foul  play  was  suspected,  no  warn- 
ing at  all.  But  here,  in  Paris,  it  was  thought  enough 
to  entrust  a  stranger  with  a  message  concerning  so 
serious  a  matter. 

Of  everything  that  had  happened  in  connection 
with  this  extraordinary  Dampier  affair,  perhaps  this 
having  to  tell  the  Poulains  that  their  hotel  was  to 
be  searched  was  the  most  disagreeable  and  painful 
thing  of  all  to  their  American  friend  and  kindly  client. 

The  Senator  was  now  very  sorry,  that,  in  deference 
to  his  son's  wish,  he  had  made  such  a  suggestion. 

On  his  return  to  the  hotel  he  was  surprised  to  find 
a  woman  he  had  never  seen  before  installed  in  Ma- 

153 


154     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

dame  Poulain's  kitchen.  Still,  the  presence  of  the 
stranger  brought  a  sense  of  reprieve. 

He,  Senator  Angus  Burton,  the  distinguished  pol- 
itician whom  most  of  those  of  his  fellow-countrymen 
whose  opinion  mattered  would  have  said  to  be  a 
particularly  fearless  man,  dreaded  the  task  of  teUing 
Madame  Poulain  that  a  Perquisition  was  about  to 
take  place  in  her  house. 

He  lifted  his  hat.     "Is  Madame  Poulain  out?" 

"She  won't  be  long,  monsieur;  she  and  her  hus- 
band have  had  to  absent  themselves  for  a  Httle  hour." 

"Are  they  both  out?"  asked  the  Senator.  He  had 
never  in  his  long  knowledge  of  the  Hotel  Saint  Ange 
known  such  a  thing  to  happen — that  both  the  Pou- 
lains  should  be  out  together. 

"Yes,  monsieur.  They  have  had  to  take  that 
nephew  of  theirs,  young  Jules,  off  to  the  station. 
They  are  sending  him  to  the  country.  He's  in  a  sad 
state — he  does  nothing  but  cry,  poor  lad!  I  suppose 
he's  in  love — I've  known  it  take  young  men  that 
way."  The  woman  smiled,  smiled  as  a  certain  type 
of  person  usually  does  smile  when  giving  disagreeable 
or  unpleasant  news.  "It  is  very  awkward  for  the 
Poulains  to  lose  the  lad  just  now,  for  they  are  very 

busy.     I  have  no  doubt "  she  tossed  her  head — 

"that  Jules  has  been  working  too  hard;  the  Poulains 
are  foolish  not  to  have  more  help  from  outside.  I 
came  in  just  to  oblige  Madame  Poulain  while  she 
and  her  husband  accompanied  Jules  to  the  station. 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     155 

But  I  also  am  busy.  I  have  my  own  work  to  attend 
to  just  as  much  as  anybody  else;  and  my  three 
children  are  all  working  at  the  Exhibition." 

The  Senator  left  the  eager  gossip,  and  began  walk- 
ing round  the  courtyard.  He  felt  quite  wretched. 
Jules,  at  no  time  a  very  intelligent  lad,  had  evidently 
been  terrified  out  of  his  wits  by  the  questionings  and 
the  cross-questionings  to  which  he  had  been  subjected. 

And  then — and  then — no  doubt  Gerald  was  in  a 
measure  also  responsible  for  the  lad's  state!  Sen- 
ator Burton  had  been  very  much  annoyed  when  his 
son  had  told  him  of  what  had  happened  the  night 
before — of  how  he  had  accused  the  Poulains'  nephew 
of  lying — of  knowing  something  of  the  D  ampler  af- 
fair, .  .   . 

He  was  just  about  to  go  upstairs  when  he  saw  Mon- 
sieur and  Madame  Poulain  emerging  from  the  porte 
cochere.    They  both  looked  tired,  hot,  and  dispirited. 

He  walked  forward  to  meet  them. 

''I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  this  news  about  Jules," 
he  began  quickly.  "I  hope  you  are  not  really  anx- 
ious about  him?  " 

Madame  Poulain  stared  at  him  fixedly,  reproach- 
fully. "It  is  all  this  affair,"  she  said  with  a  heavy 
sigh.  "If  it  had  only  been  the  police,  our  own  police, 
we  should  not  have  minded,  Monsieur  le  Senateur — 
we  are  honest  people — we  have  nothing  to  fear  from 
the  police,"  she  lifted  her  head  proudly.  "But  when 
it  came  to  that  impudent  young  man " 


156     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

For  a  moment  the  Senator  was  at  a  loss — then  he 
suddenly  remembered: — "You  mean  the  gentleman 
attached  to  the  British  Consulate?"  he  said  uncom- 
fortably. And  as  she  nodded  her  head,  "But  surely 
it  was  quite  reasonable  that  he  should  come  and  ask 
those  questions.  You  must  remember  that  both  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Dampier  are  English  people.  They  have  a 
right  to  the  protection  and  help  of  their  Consulate." 

"I  do  not  say  to  the  contrary,  monsieur.  I  am 
only  telling  you  the  truth,  namely  that  that  English 
lawyer — for  lawyer  I  suppose  he  was — terrified  Jules. 
And  had  it  not  been  that  I  and  my  husband  are  con- 
scious of — of  our  innocence.  Monsieur  le  Senateur, 
he  would  have  terrified  us  also.  Then  your  son  at- 
tacked Jules  too.  Surely  the  matter  might  have 
been  left  to  the  police — our  own  excellent  police." 

"I  am  glad  you  feel  as  you  do  about  the  police," 
said  the  Senator  earnestly,  "for  as  a  matter  of  fact 
the  Prefect  of  Police,  whom  I  have  just  been  consult- 
ing about  Mr.  Dampier's  disappearance,  suggests  that 
the  Hotel  Saint  Ange  be  searched." 

"Searched?"  exclaimed  Monsieur  Poulain,  staring 
at  the  Senator. 

"Searched?"  shrieked  Madame  Poulain  indig- 
nantly. 

"Yes,"  said  Senator  Burton  quietly,  and  trying 
to  speak  as  if  a  police  Perquisition  of  a  respectable 
hotel  was  the  most  ordinary  thing  in  the  world. 
"They  are  sending  their  men  at  eleven  to-morrow 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     157 

morning.  Let  me  add  that  they  and  Mrs.  Dampier 
are  most  eager  to  study  your  convenience  in  every 
way.  They  would  doubtless  choose  another  time 
should  eleven  o'clock  be  inconvenient  to  you." 

Madame  Poulain  was  now  speechless  with  indig- 
nation, and  yes,  with  surprise.  When  at  last  she  did 
speak,  her  voice  trembled  with  pain  and  anger. 

"To  think,"  she  said,  turning  to  her  husband,  and 
taking  for  the  moment  no  notice  of  her  American 
client — "to  think  that  you  and  I,  Poulain,  after  hav- 
ing lived  here  for  twenty-one  years  and  a  half,  should 
have  our  hotel  searched  by  the  police — as  if  it  were  the 
resort  of  brigands!"  She  turned  to  the  Senator,  and 
quietly,  not  without  a  measure  of  dignity,  went  on: — 
"And  to  think  that  it  is  you.  Monsieur  le  Senateur, 
who  we  have  always  thought  one  of  our  best  patrons, 
who  have  brought  this  indignity  upon  us!" 

"I  am  very,  very  sorry  for  all  the  trouble  you  are 
having  about  this  afifair,"  said  Senator  Burton  ear- 
nestly. "And  Madame  Poulain?  I  want  to  assure 
you  how  entirely  I  have  always  believed  your  state- 
ment concerning  this  strange  business." 

"If  that  is  so  then  why  all  this — this  trouble,  Mon- 
sieur le  Senateur?"  Husband  and  wife  spoke  sim- 
ultaneously. 

"I  wonder,"  exclaimed  the  Senator,  "that  you  can 
ask  me  such  a  question!  I  quite  admit  that  the  first 
twenty-four  hours  I  knew  nothing  of  this  unfortunate 
young  woman  whose  cause  I  championed.    But  now, 


158     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

Madame  Poulain,  I  have  learnt  that  all  she  told  me 
of  herself  is  true.  Remember  she  has  never  faltered 
in  the  statement  that  she  came  here  accompanied  by 
her  husband.  I,  as  you  know,"  he  lowered  his  voice, 
"suppose  that  in  so  thinking  she  is  suffering  from  a 
delusion.  But  you  cannot  expect  my  view  to  be 
shared  by  those  who  know  her  well  and  who  are 
strangers  to  you.  As  I  told  you  only  this  morning, 
we  hope  that  towards  the  end  of  this  week  Mrs. 
Dampier's  lawyer  will  arrive  from  England." 

"But  what  will  happen  then?"  cried  Madame  Pou- 
lain,  throwing  up  her  hands  with  an  excited,  pas- 
sionate gesture.  "When  will  this  persecution  come 
to  an  end?  We  have  done  everything  we  could;  we 
have  submitted  to  odious  interrogatories,  first  from 
one  and  then  from  the  other — and  now  our  hotel  is  to 
be  searched!  None  of  our  other  clients,  and  remem- 
ber the  hotel  is  full.  Monsieur  le  Senateur,  have  a 
suspicion  of  what  is  going  on,  but  any  moment  the 
affair  may  become  public,  and  then — then  our  hotel 
might  empty  in  a  day!  Oh,  Monsieur  le  Senateur" — 
she  clasped  her  hands  together — "If  you  refuse  to 
think  of  us,  think  of  our  child,  think  of  poor  little 
Virginie!" 

"Come,  come,  Madame  Poulain!" 

The  Senator  turned  to  the  good  woman's  husband, 
but  Poulain's  usually  placid  face  bore  a  look  of  low- 
ering rage.  The  mention  of  his  idolised  daughter 
had  roused  his  distress  as  well  as  anger. 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     159 

"Now,  Poulain,  do  tell  your  wife  that  there  is 
really  nothing  to  worry  about.  The  police  speak  of 
you  both  in  the  very  highest  terms !  As  to  the  search 
that  will  take  place  to-morrow,  it  is  the  merest  for- 
mality." 

"I  hope,  monsieur,  that  you  will  do  us  the  honour 
of  being  present,"  said  Madame  Poulain  quickly. 
"We  have  nothing  to  hide,  and  we  should  far  prefer 
you  to  be  there." 

"If  such  is  your  wish  I  will  certainly  be  present," 
said  Senator  Burton  gravely. 

And  then,  as  he  walked  away  to  the  escalier  d^hon- 
neur,  he  told  himself  that  on  the  whole  the  poor  Pou- 
lains  had  taken  his  disagreeable  piece  of  news  very 
well.  Gerald  was  not  showing  his  usual  sense  over 
this  business:  he  had  let  his  sympathies  run  away 
with  him.  But  the  Senator  loved  his  son  all  the  bet- 
ter for  his  chivalrous  interest  in  poor  Mrs.  Dampier. 
It  wasn't  every  young  man  who  would  have  put 
everything  aside  in  the  way  of  interest,  of  amusement, 
and  of  pleasure  in  such  a  city  as  Paris,  for  the  sake 
of  an  entire  stranger. 

As  to  Gerald's  view  of  the  Poulains,  that  again 
was  natural.  He  didn't  know  these  people  with  the 
same  kindly  knowledge  the  Senator  and  Daisy  had  of 
them.  Gerald  had  been  at  college,  and  later  working 
hard  in  the  office  of  America's  greatest  living  archi- 
tect, at  the  time  the  Senator  and  his  daughter  had 
spent  a  whole  winter  at  the  Hotel  Saint  Ange. 


i6o     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

It  was  natural  that  the  young  man  should  take  Mrs. 
Dampier's  word  instead  of  the  hotel-keepers'.  But 
even  so,  how  extraordinary  was  the  utter  divergence 
between  the  two  accounts  of  what  had  happened! 

For  the  hundredth  time  Senator  Burton  asked  him- 
self where  the  truth  lay. 

A  sad  change  had  come  over  Nancy  Dampier  in 
the  three  long  days.  She  could  not  sleep,  and  th.ey 
had  to  force  her  to  eat.  The  interrogatories  to  which 
she  had  had  to  submit,  first  from  one  and  then  from 
another,  had  worn  her  out.  When  going  over  her 
story  with  the  Consular  ojQ&cial,  she  had  suddenly 
faltered,  and  putting  her  hand  to  her  head  with  a  be- 
wildered gesture,  "I  can't  remember,"  she  had  said, 
looking  round  piteously  at  the  Senator,  "I  can't  re- 
member!" 

And  he  asked  himself  now  whether  those  three 
words  did  not  embody  more  of  the  truth  than  the 
poor  girl  would  admit.  Had  she  ever  really  remem- 
bered what  had  happened  on  that  first  evening  of  her 
arrival  in  Paris? 

Such  were  Senator  Burton's  disconnected  and 
troubled  thoughts  as,  leaving  the  perturbed  hotel- 
keepers,  he  slowly  went  to  join  his  children  and  their 
guest. 

To  his  relief,  neither  Daisy  nor  Nancy  were  in  the 
salon,  and  his  thoughts  were  pleasantly  forced  into 
another  channel,  for  on  the  table  lay  a  cable  from 
some  people  called  Ham  worth.     Mr.  Ham  worth  wa^ 


THE  END   OF  HER  HONEYMOON     i6i 

one  of  the  Senator's  oldest  friends:  also  there  was  a 
pretty  clever  daughter  who  had  always  shown  a 
rather  special  liking  for  Gerald.  .  .  . 

The  Hamworths  were  arriving  in  Paris  at  ten  the 
next  morning,  and  they  asked  the  Senator  and  his 
children  to  join  them  at  lunch  at  Bignon's. 

Mingling  with  a  natural  pleasure  at  the  thought 
of  seeing  old  friends,  and  of  getting  away  from  all 
this  painful  business  for  a  short  time,  was  added  a 
secret  satisfaction  at  the  thought  that  he  would  thus 
escape  being  present  at  the  search  of  the  Hotel  Saint 
Ange. 


CHAPTER  XI 

"I  SUPPOSE  we  ought  to  start  in  about  half  an  hour," 
said  the  Senator  genially.  They  were  sitting,  he  and 
Gerald,  at  breakfast. 

Madame  Poulain,  with  the  adaptability  of  her  kind 
— the  adaptability  which  makes  the  French  inn- 
keeper the  best  in  the  world,  always  served  a  real 
"American  breakfast"  in  the  Burtons'  salon. 

As  his  son  made  no  answer  to  his  remark,  he  went 
on,  "I  should  Hke  to  be  at  the  station  a  few  minutes 
before  the  Hamworths'  train  is  due." 

Senator  Burton  was  sorry,  very,  very  sorry  indeed, 
that  there  was  stUl  no  news  of  the  missing  man,  on 
this  third  morning  of  Dampier's  disappearance.  But 
he  could  not  help  feeHng  glad  that  poor  little  Mrs. 
Dampier  had  stayed  in  bed;  thanks  to  that  fact  he 
and  his  children  were  having  breakfast  together,  in 
the  old,  comfortable  way. 

The  Senator  felt  happier  than  he  had  felt  for  some 
time.  What  a  comfort  it  would  be,  even  to  Gerald 
and  to  Daisy,  to  forget  for  a  moment  this  strange, 
painful  affair,  and  to  spend  three  or  four  hours  with 
old  friends! 

Gerald  looked  up.  "  I'm  not  coming,  father.  You 
162 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     163 

will  have  to  make  my  apologies  to  the  Hamworths. 
Of  course  I  should  have  liked  to  see  them.  But  Mrs. 
Dampier  has  asked  me  to  be  present  at  the  search. 
Someone  ought,  of  course,  to  be  there  to  represent 
her."  He  jerked  the  words  out  with  a  touch  of  de- 
fiance in  his  voice. 

"I'm  sorry  she  did  that,"  said  the  Senator  coldly. 
"And  I  think,  Gerald,  you  should  have  consulted  me 
before  consenting  to  do  so.  You  see,  our  position 
with  regard  to  the  Poulains  is  a  delicate  one " 

"DeHcate?"  repeated  Gerald  quickly.  "How  do 
you  mean,  father?" 

"We  have  known  these  people  a  long  while.  It  is 
fifteen  years,  Gerald,  since  I  first  came  to  this  hotel 
with  your  dear  mother.  I  have  received  nothing  but 
kindness  from  Madame  Poulain,  and  I  am  very,  very 
sorry  that  she  now  associates  us  in  her  mind  with  this 
painful  business." 

"All  I  can  say  is,  sir,  that  I  do  not  share  your  sor- 
row." 

The  Senator  looked  up  quickly.  This  was  the 
first  time — yes,  the  very  first  time  that  Gerald  had 
ever  spoken  to  him  with  that  touch  of  sarcasm — some 
would  have  said  impertinence — which  sits  so  ill  on 
the  young,  at  any  rate  in  the  view  of  the  old.  Per- 
haps Gerald  repented  of  his  rude,  hasty  words,  for  it 
was  in  a  very  different  tone  that  he  went  on : — 

"You  see,  father,  I  beheve  the  whole  of  Mrs. 
Dampier's  story,  and  you  only  believe  a  part.     If  I 


i64     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

shared  your  view  I  should  think  very  ill  of  her  indeed. 
But  you,  father  (I  don't  quite  know  how  you  do  it) 
manage  to  like  and  respect  her,  and  to  believe  the 
Poulains  as  well!" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Senator  slowly,  "that  is  so,  Gerald. 
I  believe  that  the  Poulains  are  telHng  the  truth,  and 
that  this  poor  young  woman  thinks  she  is  telUng  the 
truth — two  very  different  things,  my  boy,  as  you  will 
find  out  by  the  time  you  know  as  much  of  human 
nature  as  I  now  do.  When  you  have  Hved  as  long 
as  I  have  lived  in  the  world,  you  will  know  that  many 
people  have  an  extraordinary  power  of  persuading 
themselves  of  that  which  is  not " 

"But    why "    asked    Gerald    eagerly, — "why 

should  Mrs.  Dampier  wish  to  prove  that  her  husband 
accompanied  her  here  if  he  did  nothing  of  the  kind?" 

And  then  just  as  he  asked  the  question  which  the 
Senator  would  not  have  found  it  very  easy  to  answer, 
Daisy  came  into  the  room. 

"I  have  persuaded  Mrs.  Dampier  to  stay  in  bed  till 
the  search  is  over.  She's  just  worn  out,  poor  little 
dear:  I  shall  be  glad  when  this  Mr.  Stephens  has 
arrived — she  evidently  has  the  greatest  faith  in  him." 

"I  shall  be  glad  too,"  said  the  Senator  slowly:  how 
glad  he  would  be  neither  of  his  children  knew  or 
guessed.  "And  now,  Daisy,  I  hope  you  won't  be  long 
in  getting  ready  to  start  for  the  station.  I  should 
be  sorry  indeed  if  the  Hamworths'  train  came  in 
before  we  reached  there." 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     165 

"Father!  Surely  you  don't  want  me  to  leave 
Nancy  this  morning  of  all  mornings?  She  ought  not 
to  be  alone  while  the  search  is  going  on.  She  wanted 
to  be  actually  present  at  it,  didn't  she,  Gerald?  " 

The  yoimg  man  nodded.  "Yes,  but  Daisy  and  I 
persuaded  her  that  that  was  not  necessary,  that  I 
would  be  there  for  her.  It  seems  that  Mr.  Dampier 
had  a  very  large  portmanteau  with  him.  She  is  sure 
that  the  Poulains  have  got  it  hidden  away." 

"She  has  told  Gerald  exactly  what  it  is  like," 
chimed  in  Daisy. 

The  Senator  looked  from  one  to  the  other:  he  felt 
both  helpless  and  indignant.  "The  Ham  worths  are 
among  the  oldest  friends  we  have  in  the  world,"  he 
exclaimed.  "Surely  one  of  you  will  come  with  me? 
I'm  not  asking  you  to  leave  Mrs.  Dampier  for  long, 
Daisy." 

But  Daisy  shook  her  head  decidedly.  "I'd  rather 
not,  father— I  don't  feel  as  if  I  wanted  to  see  the  Ham- 
worths  at  all  just  now.  I'm  sure  that  when  you  ex- 
plain everything  to  them,  they  will  understand." 

Utterly  discomfited  and  disappointed,  and  feeling 
for  the  first  time  really  angry  with  poor  Nancy  Dam- 
pier, Senator  Burton  took  his  departure  for  the  sta- 
tion, alone. 

Perquisition? 

To  the  French  imagination  there  is  something  ter- 
rifying in  the  very  word.     And  this  justifiable  terror 


i66     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

is  a  national  tradition.  To  thousands  of  honest  folk 
a  Perquisition  was  an  ever  present  fear  through  the 
old  Regime,  and  this  fear  became  acute  terror  in  the 
Revolution.  Then  a  search  warrant  meant  almost 
certainly  subsequent  arrest,  imprisonment,  and  death. 

Even  nowadays  every  Frenchman  is  aware  that  at 
any  moment,  and  sometimes  on  the  most  frivolous 
pretext,  his  house  may  be  searched,  his  most  private 
papers  ransacked,  and  every  member  of  his  household 
submitted  to  a  sharp,  informal  interrogation,  while 
he  stands  helpless  by,  bearing  the  outrage  with  what 
grace  he  may. 

Gerald  Burton,  much  as  he  now  disliked  and  sus- 
pected Monsieur  and  Madame  Poulain,  could  not  but 
feel  sorry  for  them  when  he  saw  the  manner  in  which 
those  hitherto  respectable  and  self-respecting  folk 
were  treated  by  the  Police  Agent  who,  with  two  sub- 
ordinates, had  been  entrusted  with  the  task  of  search- 
ing the  Hotel  Saint  Ange. 

The  American  was  also  surprised  to  see  the  eager- 
ness with  which  the  Poulains  had  welcomed  his  pres- 
ence at  their  unpleasant  ordeal. 

"Thank  you  for  coming,  Monsieur  Gerald;  but 
where  is  Monsieur  le  Senateur?"  asked  Madame  Pou- 
lain feverishly.  "He  promised — he  absolutely  prom- 
ised us  that  he  would  be  here  this  morning!" 

"My  father  has  had  to  go  out,"  said  Gerald  cour- 
teously, "but  I  am  here  to  represent  both  him  and 
Mrs.  Dampier." 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     167 

A  heavy  frown  gathered  over  the  landlady's  face. 
*'Ah!"  she  muttered,  "it  was  a  dark  day  for  us  when 
we  allowed  that  lady  to  enter  our  hotel!" 

Gerald,  putting  a  strong  restraint  on  his  tongue, 
remained  silent,  but  a  moment  later,  as  if  in  answer 
to  his  feeling  of  exasperation  and  anger,  he  heard  the 
Police  Agent's  voice  raised  in  sarcastic  wrath.  "I 
must  ask  you  to  produce  the  plan  before  I  begin  my 
Perquisition.'' 

"But,  monsieur,"  exclaimed  the  hotel-keeper  pit- 
eously,  "I  cannot  give  you  a  plan  of  our  hotel!  How 
should  we  have  such  a  thing?  The  house  is  said  to 
be  three  hundred  years  old.  We  have  even  been  told 
it  should  be  classed  as  an  Historical  Monument!" 

"Every  hotel-keeper  is  bound  to  have  a  plan  of  his 
hotel,"  said  the  Agent  roughly.  "And  I  shall  report 
you  for  not  complying  with  the  law.  If  a  plan  of  the 
Hotel  Saint  Ange  did  not  exist,  it  was  your  duty  to 
have  one  made  at  your  own  expense." 

"Bien,  bien,  monsieur!  It  shall  be  done,"  said 
Poulain  resignedly. 

"To  have  a  Perquisition  without  a  plan  is  a  farce!" 
said  the  man,  this  time  addressing  Gerald  Burton. 
"  An  absolute  farce !  In  such  an  old  house  as  this  there 
may  be  many  secret  hiding-places." 

"There  are  no  secret  hiding-places  in  our  hotel," 
screamed  Madame  Poulain  angrily.  "We  have  no 
objection  at  all  to  being  inspected  in  the  greatest  de- 
tail. But  I  must  warn  you,  gentlemen,  that  your 
job  will  take  some  time  to  carry  through." 


i68     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

The  Police  Agent  shrugged  his  shoulders  disagree- 
ably. "Come  along,"  he  said  sharply.  *'Let  us  be- 
gin at  once!  We  would  Hke  to  start  by  seeing  your 
own  rooms,  madame." 

Gerald  Burton  began  to  feel  very  uncomfortable. 
Under  pleasanter,  more  normal  circumstances  he 
would  have  thoroughly  enjoyed  a  long  exhaustive 
inspection  of  a  house  which  had  probably  been  re- 
modelled, early  in  the  eighteenth  century,  on  the  site 
of  a  mediaeval  building. 

For  the  first  time  since  he  had  begun  to  study  with 
a  view  to  excelling  in  the  profession  he  had  himself 
chosen,  he  had  forgotten  his  work — the  work  he  so 
much  enjoyed — for  three  whole  days.  This  Perqui- 
sition brought  some  of  the  old  interest  back.  As  an 
architect  he  could  not  but  be  interested  and  stim- 
ulated by  this  intimate  inspection  of  what  had  been 
a  magnificent  specimen  of  a  French  town  mansion. 

When  the  search  party  reached  the  bed-chamber 
of  the  hotel-keeper  and  his  wife  Gerald  Burton  drew 
back,  but  Madame  Poulain  gave  him  a  smart  tap  on 
the  arm.  "Go  in,  go  in!"  she  said  tartly,  but  he  saw 
there  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  "We  have  nothing  to 
hide,  Monsieur  Gerald!  This  is  my  room  of  mem- 
ories; the  room  where  our  beloved  Virginie  was  born. 
Little  did  I  think  it  would  ever  be  dishonoured  by  the 
presence  of  the  poHce!" 

Gerald,  thus  objurgated,  walked  through  into  a 
large  room,  low-ceilinged  as  are  all  rooms  situated 
on  the  entresol  floor  of  a  Paris  house. 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     169 

Over  the  bed  hung  Madame  Poulain's  wedding 
wreath  of  artificial  orange  blossoms  in  a  round  glass 
case.  Photographs  of  the  beloved  Virginie  taken  at 
various  stages  of  her  Hfe,  from  infancy  to  girlhood, 
were  the  sole  other  adornment  of  the  room,  and 
formed  an  odd  contrast  to  the  delicately  carved 
frames  of  the  old  dim  mirrors  let  into  grey  panelled 
walls. 

"What  have  we  here?"  cried  the  Police  Agent  tap- 
ping one  of  the  panels  which  formed  the  wall  oppo- 
site the  door  and  the  fireplace. 

"It  is  a  way  through  into  our  daughter's  room," 
said  Poulain  sullenly,  and  opening  what  appeared  to 
be  a  cupboard  door. 

The  American  took  an  eager  step  forward. 

This  must  be  the  place  in  which,  according  to 
Nancy's  account,  John  Dampier  had  stood  concealed 
during  that  eventful  moment  when  he,  Gerald,  and 
his  sister  Daisy,  had  stood  looking  into  the  tiny  room. 

Yes,  two  or  three  people  might  well  stand  hidden 
in  this  deep  recess,  for  the  cupboard  was  almost  as 
large  as  the  smaller  of  the  two  apartments  of  which 
it  formed  the  connecting  link. 

The  Police  Agent,  following  young  Burton,  stepped 
down  into  Virginie's  room: — his  voice  softened: — "A 
very  charming  room,"  he  said,  "this  little  nest  of 
mademoiselle  your  daughter!" 

"We  had  to  cut  a  window  out  of  the  wall,"  ob- 
served Madame  Poulain.    "When  we  first  came  here 


I70     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

this  was  a  blind  closet  where  the  aristocrats,  it  seems, 
used  to  powder  their  hair — silly  creatures  that  they 
were!  As  if  anyone  would  like  to  be  white  before 
their  time!" 

"We  had  better  go  up  this  staircase,"  said  the 
Police  Agent,  passing  out  of  Mademoiselle  Poulain's 
room. 

And  the  six  of  them  all  filed  up  the  narrow  stair- 
case, glancing  into  many  a  curious,  strange  little 
apartment  on  the  way. 

Every  inch  of  space  had  been  utilised  in  view  of  the 
business  the  Exhibition  rush  had  brought  the  Pou- 
lains.  Still,  even  on  the  upper  floors,  Gerald  Burton 
noticed  that  there  remained  intact  many  beautiful 
suites  of  apartments  now  divided  and  let  out  as  single 
rooms. 

Not  a  word  had  been  said  of  the  coming  Perqui- 
sition to  those  staying  in  the  hotel.  But  Madame 
Poulain,  by  some  means  best  known  to  herself,  had 
managed  to  get  rid  of  them  all  for  the  morning.  And 
it  was  well  that  she  had  done  so,  for  in  more  than  one 
case  the  Police  Agent  and  his  men  lifted  the  lid  of 
travelling  trunks,  unhesitatingly  pulled  out  drawers, 
and  flung  open  the  doors  of  hanging  cupboards. 

Gerald  Burton  was  in  turn  amused,  interested,  and 
disgusted.  The  glimpses  which  this  search  revealed 
into  other  people's  lives  seemed  dishonourable,  and 
instinctively  he  withdrew  his  gaze  and  strove  to  see 
as  little  as  possible. 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     171 

Having  thoroughly  examined  all  the  street  side  of 
the  Hotel  Saint  Ange,  the  three  police  emissaries 
started  their  investigations  on  the  other  side  of  the 
quadrangle,  that  which  gave  on  the  courtyard  and 
on  the  garden. 

When  the  party  came  round  to  the  rooms  occupied 
by  Senator  Burton  and  his  family,  Madame  Poulain 
came  forward,  and  touched  the  Police  Agent  on  the 
arm: — "The  lady  who  imagines  that  we  have  made 
away  with  her  husband  is  here,"  she  whispered. 
''You  had  better  knock  at  the  door,  and  then  walk 
straight  in.  She  will  not  be  pleased — perhaps  she 
will  scream — English  people  are  so  prudish  when  they 
are  in  bed!  But  never  mind  what  she  says  or  does: 
there  is  no  reason  why  her  room  should  not  be 
searched  as  well  as  that  of  everybody  else." 

But  the  woman's  vengeful  wish  was  to  remain 
ungratified. 

Nancy  Dampier  had  dressed,  and  with  Daisy's  help 
she  had  even  made  her  bed.  The  Pohce  Agent — 
Gerald  Burton  was  deeply  grateful  to  him  for  it- 
treated  her  with  consideration  and  respect. 

^^Cest  Men!  Cest  bien!  madame,"  he  said,  just 
glancing  round  the  room,  and  making  a  quick  sign 
to  his  men  that  their  presence  was  not  required  there. 

At  last  the  weary  party,  for  by  that  time  they  were 
all  very  weary,  reached  the  top  floor  of  the  Hotel 
Saint  Ange. 

Here  were  rough  garrets,  oppressively  hot  on  a  day 


172     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

like  this,  but  each  and  all  obviously  serving  some 
absent  client  of  the  hotel  as  temporary  dwelling- 
place. 

Madame  Poulain  looked  quite  exhausted.  "I 
think,"  she  said  plaintively,  "I  will  remain  here, 
monsieur,  at  the  end  of  the  passage.  You  will  find 
every  door  unlocked.  Perhaps  we  ought  to  tell  you 
that  these  rooms  are  not  as  a  rule  inhabited,  or  in- 
deed used  by  us  in  any  way.  That  must  excuse  their 
present  condition.  But  in  a  season  like  this — well, 
dame!  we  could  fill  every  cranny  twice  over!" 

Gerald  and  the  three  Frenchmen  walked  along  the 
corridor,  the  latter  flinging  open  door  after  door  of 
the  curious  cell-like  Uttle  bedrooms  furnished  for  the 
most  part  with  only  an  iron  bed,  a  couple  of  chairs, 
and  the  usual  walnut-wood  wardrobe. 

"What's  this? "  asked  one  of  the  men  sharply.  "We 
find  a  door  plastered  up  here.  Monsieur  Poulain." 

But  it  was  Madame  Poulain  who  came  languidly 
forward  from  the  end  of  the  passage.  "Yes,"  she 
said.  "If  you  wish  to  see  that  room  you  will  have 
to  get  a  ladder  and  climb  up  from  the  outside.  A 
young  Breton  priest  died  here  last  January  from  scar- 
let fever,  monsieur "  she  lowered  her  voice  in- 
stinctively— "and  the  sanitary  authorities  forced  us 
to  block  up  the  room  in  this  way — most  unfortunately 
for  us." 

"It  is  strange,"  said  the  man,  "that  the  seal  of  the 
sanitary  authorities  is  not  afiSxed  to  the  door." 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     173 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  Madame  Poulain 
uncomfortably,  "the  seal  was  there,  but  I  removed 
it.  You  see,  monsieur,  it  would  not  have  been  pleas- 
ant, even  when  all  danger  of  infection  was  gone,  to 
say  anything  to  our  other  clients  about  so  sad  an 
event." 

The  man  nodded  his  head,  and  went  on. 

But  the  incident  made  a  disagreeable  impression 
on  Gerald  Burton.  And  when  they  all  finally  came 
down  to  the  courtyard,  the  Police  Agents  being  by 
this  time  on  far  better  terms  with  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Poulain  than  they  had  been  at  the  begin- 
ning— on  such  good  terms  indeed  that  they  were  more 
than  willing  to  attack  the  refreshments  the  hotel- 
keeper  had  made  ready  for  them — he  drew  the  head 
Agent  aside. 

"There  was  one  thing,"  he  said,  "which  rather 
troubled  me " 

The  man  looked  at  him  attentively.  "Yes,  mon- 
sieur?" He  realised  that  this  young  man,  whom  he 
took  for  an  Englishman,  had  been  present  on  behalf 
of  the  people  at  whose  request  the  Perquisition  had 
been  ordered.  He  was  therefore  inclined  to  treat  him 
with  civility. 

"I  mean  that  closed  room  on  the  top  floor,"  said 
Gerald  hesitatingly.  "Is  there  no  way  of  ascer- 
taining whether  Madame  Poulain's  story  is  true — 
whether,  that  is,  the  room  was  ever  condemned  by 
the  sanitary  authorities?" 


174     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

"Yes,"  said  the  Agent,  "nothing  is  easier,  mon- 
sieur, than  to  find  that  out." 

He  took  a  note-book  out  of  his  pocket,  tore  out  a 
sheet,  and  wrote  a  few  lines  on  it.  Then  he  called 
one  of  his  subordinates  to  him  and  said  a  few  words 
of  which  Gerald  caught  the  sense.  It  was  an  order 
to  go  to  the  office  of  the  sanitary  inspector  of  the  dis- 
trict and  bring  back  an  answer  at  once. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  man  was  back. 

"The  answer  is  'Yes,'"  he  said  a  Httle  breathlessly, 
and  he  handed  his  chief  a  large  sheet  of  paper,  headed : 

ViLLE  DE  Paris, 

Sanitary  Inspector's  Department. 
In  answer  to  your  question,  I  have  to  report 
that  we  did  condemn  a  room  in  the  Hotel  Saint 
Ange  for  cause  of  infectious  disease. 

The  Police  Agent  handed  it  to  Gerald  Burton.  "I 
felt  sure  that  in  that  matter,"  he  observed,  "Madame 
Poulain  was  telling  the  truth.  But,  of  course,  a  Per- 
quisition in  a  house  of  this  kind  is  a  mere  farce,  with- 
out a  plan  to  guide  us.  Think  of  the  strange  winding 
passages  along  which  we  were  led,  of  the  blind  rooms, 
of  the  deep  cupboards  into  which  we  peeped!  For  all 
we  can  tell,  several  apartments  may  have  entirely 
escaped  our  knowledge." 

"Do  you  make  many  of  these  Perquisitions?^^ 
asked  Gerald  curiously. 

"No,   monsieur.     We  are  very  seldom    asked  to 


THE  END   OF  HER  HONEYMOON     175 

search  a  whole  house.  Almost  always  we  have  some 
indication  as  to  the  special  room  or  rooms  which  are 
to  be  investigated.  In  fact  since  I  became  attached 
to  the  police,  six  years  ago,  this  is  the  first  time  I  have 
ever  had  to  carry  out  a  thorough  Perquisition,'"  he 
laughed  a  little  ruefully,  "and  it  makes  one  dry!" 

Gerald  Burton  took  the  hint.  He  put  a  twenty- 
franc  piece  into  the  man's  hand.  "For  you  and  your 
men,"  he  said.  "Go  and  get  a  good  lunch:  I  am 
sure  you  need  it." 

The  PoHce  Agent  thanked  him  cordially.  "One 
word,  monsieur?  Perhaps  I  ought  to  tell  you  that 
we  of  the  police  are  quite  sure  that  the  gentleman 
about  whom  you  are  anxious  left  this  hotel — if  in- 
deed he  was  ever  in  it.  The  Poulains  bear  a  very 
good  character — better  than  that  of  many  hotel- 
keepers  of  whom  I  could  tell  you — better  than  that  of 
certain  hotel-keepers  who  own  grand  international 
hotels  the  other  side  of  the  river.  Of  course  I  had  to 
be  rough  with  them  at  first — one  has  to  keep  up  one's 
character,  you  know.  But,  monsieur?  I  was  told  con- 
fidentially that  this  Perquisitioji  would  probably  lead 
to  nothing,  and,  as  you  see,  it  has  led  to  nothing." 

Gerald  sighed,  rather  wearily,  for  he  too  was  tired, 
he  too  would  be  glad  of  his  luncheon.  Yes,  this 
search  had  been,  as  the  Police  Agent  hinted,  something 
of  a  farce  after  all,  and  he  had  led  not  only  himself, 
but,  what  he  regretted  far  more,  poor  Nancy  Dampier 
down  a  blind  alley. 


176     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

He  found  her  waiting,  feverishly  eager  and  anx- 
ious to  hear  the  result  of  the  Perquisition.  When  the 
door  of  the  salon  opened,  she  got  up  and  turned  to 
him,  a  strained  look  on  her  face. 

"Well?"  she  said.     "Well,  Mr.  Burton?" 

He  shook  his  head  despondently.  "We  found  noth- 
ing, absolutely  nothing  which  could  connect  your  hus- 
band with  any  one  of  the  rooms  which  we  searched, 
Mrs.  Dampier.  If,  after  leaving  you,  he  did  spend 
the  night  in  the  Hotel  Saint  Ange,  the  Poulains  have 
obliterated  every  trace  of  his  presence." 

She  gave  a  low  cry  of  pain,  of  bitter  disappoint- 
ment, and  suddenly  sinking  down  into  a  chair,  buried 
her  head  in  her  hands — "I  can't  bear  it,"  she  wailed. 
"I  only  want  to  know  the  truth,  whatever  the  truth 
may  be!  Anything  would  be  better  than  what  I  am 
going  through  now." 

Gerald  Burton  came  and  stood  by  the  bowed  fig- 
ure. He  became  curiously  pale  with  that  clear,  not 
unhealthy,  pallor  which  is  induced  by  exceptional  in- 
tensity of  feeling. 

"Mrs.  Dampier?"  he  said,  in  a  very  low  voice. 

She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  him  fixedly. 

"Everything  that  a  man  can  do  I  will  do  to  find 
your  husband.  If  I  fail  to  find  him  living  I  will  find 
him  dead." 


CHAPTER  XII 

But  it  is  far  easier  to  form  such  a  resolution  and  to 
make  such  a  promise  as  that  which  Gerald  Burton 
had  made  to  Nancy  Dampier  than  it  is  to  carry  it 
out. 

The  officials  of  the  Prefecture  of  Police  grew  well 
accustomed  to  the  sight  of  the  tall,  good-looking 
young  American  coming  and  going  in  their  midst,  and 
they  all  showed  a  sympathetic  interest  in  his  quest. 
But  though  the  police  officials  were  lavish  in  kindly 
words,  and  in  permits  and  passes  which  he  found  an 
open  sesame  to  the  various  places  where  it  was  just 
conceivable  that  John  Dampier,  after  having  met 
with  some  kind  of  accident,  might  have  been  carried, 
they  were  apparently  quite  unable  to  elucidate  the 
growing  mystery  of  the  English  artist's  disappearance. 

Early  on  the  Friday  morning  Gerald  Burton  tele- 
phoned to  Nancy  Dampier's  friend  and  lawyer  the 
fact  that  they  were  still  entirely  without  any  clue 
to  the  whereabouts  of  the  missing  man.  And,  true 
to  his  word,  Mr.  Stephens  arrived  in  Paris  that  same 
evening. 

He  found  his  poor  young  client  awaiting  him  in  the 
company  of  the  new  friends  to  whom  she  owed  so 

177 


178     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

deep  a  debt  of  gratitude,  and  this  lessened,  to  a  cer- 
tain extent,  the  awkwardness  of  their  meeting.  Even 
so,  the  shrewd,  kindly  Englishman  felt  much  shocked 
and  distressed  by  the  change  which  had  taken  place 
in  Nancy. 

Just  a  month  ago  he  had  seen  her  standing,  most 
radiant  as  well  as  prettiest  of  brides,  by  her  proud 
husband's  side.  Perhaps  because  she  had  had  so 
lonely  a  girlhood  there  had  been  no  tears  at  Nancy 
Tremain's  wedding,  and  when  he  had  put  her  in  the 
carriage  which  was  to  be  the  first  little  stage  of  her 
honeymoon,  she  had  whispered,  "Mr.  Stephens?  I 
feel  as  if  I  was  going  home  J'  And  the  lawyer  had 
known  all  that  the  dear,  to  her  till  then  unfamiliar, 
word — had  meant  to  her. 

And  now,  here  she  was  with  strangers,  wan,  strained 
and  unutterably  weary-looking;  as  she  stood,  her  hand 
clasped  in  his,  looking,  with  dumb  anguish,  up  into 
his  face,  Mr.  Stephens  felt  a  thrill  of  intense  anger 
against  John  Dampier.  For  the  present,  at  any  rate, 
he  refused  to  entertain  the  theory  of  crime  or  acci- 
dent.    But  he  kept  his  thoughts  entirely  to  himself. 

The  irruption  of  any  human  being  into  a  small  and, 
for  any  reason,  closely  welded  together  set  of  people 
produces  much  the  same  effect  as  docs  the  addition 
of  a  new  product  to  a  chemical  mixture.  And  the 
arrival  of  the  English  lawyer  affected  not  only  Nancy 
herself  but,  in  varying  ways,  Senator  Burton  and  his 
son. 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     179 

A  very  few  moments  spent  in  the  Englishman's 
company  brought  to  the  American  Senator  an  im- 
mense measure  of  relief.  For  one  thing,  he  was  sin- 
cerely glad  to  know  that  the  poor  young  stranger's 
business  was  about  to  pass  into  capable  and  evidently 
most  trustworthy  hands:  also  a  rapid  interchange  of 
words  the  first  time  they  were  left  alone  together  put 
an  end,  and  that  for  ever,  to  Senator  Burton's  uneasy 
suspicions — suspicions  which  had  persisted  to  the  end 
— as  to  Mrs.  Dampier's  account  of  herself. 

Whatever  else  was  obscure  in  this  strange  story, 
it  was  now  clear  that  Nancy  had  told  nothing  but 
the  truth  concerning  her  short,  simple  past  hfe.  And 
looking  back  the  Senator  foimd  it  difl&cult,  as  a  man 
so  often  finds  it  difficult  when  he  becomes  wise  after 
an  event,  to  justify,  even  to  himself,  his  former  atti- 
tude of  distrust. 

As  to  Gerald  Burton,  he  felt  a  little  jealousy  of 
the  lawyer.  Till  the  coming  of  Mr.  Stephens  it  was 
to  him  that  Mrs.  D ampler  had  instinctively  turned 
in  her  distress  and  suspense;  now  she  naturally  con- 
sulted, and  deferred  to  the  advice  of,  the  older  man 
and  older  friend. 

But  Mr.  Stephens  was  not  able  to  do  more  than  had 
already  been  done.  He  hstened  to  what  all  those 
about  him  had  to  say  concerning  John  Dampier's 
disappearance,  and  he  carefully  went  over  the  ground 
already  covered  by  Senator  Burton  and  his  son.  He, 
too,  saw  the  British  Consul;  he,  too,  was  granted  a 


i8o    THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

short  but  cordial  interview  with  the  Prefect  of  Police; 
but  not  even  to  the  Senator  did  he  advance  any  per- 
sonal theory  as  to  what  could  account  for  the  ex- 
traordinary occurrence. 

Members  of  the  legal  profession  are  the  same  all 
the  world  over.  If  they  are  wise  men  and  good  law- 
yers, they  keep  their  own  counsel. 

Perhaps  because  he  himself  had  a  son  who  was 
Gerald's  age,  the  English  soHcitor  took,  from  the  first, 
a  very  special  interest  in  the  young  American  archi- 
tect. Soon  they  were  on  excellent  terms  with  one 
another — indeed,  it  was  with  Gerald  Burton  that  he 
found  he  had  most  to  do.  The  young  man  naturally 
accompanied  him  to  all  those  places  where  the  pres- 
ence of  a  first-rate  interpreter  was  likely  to  be  useful, 
and  Gerald  Burton  also  pursued  a  number  of  inde- 
pendent enquiries  on  his  own  account. 

But  nothing  was  of  any  avail;  they  were  baffled 
at  every  turn,  and  soon  this  search  for  a  vanished 
man  became,  to  one  of  the  two  now  so  strenuously 
engaged  in  it,  the  most  sinister  and  disturbing  of  the 
many  problems  with  which  he  had  had  to  deal  as  a 
trusted  family  lawyer. 

The  screen  of  memory  bears  many  blurred  and 
hazy  impressions  on  its  surface,  but  now  and  again 
some  special  dramatic  happening  remains  fixed  there 
in  a  series  of  sharply-etched  pictures  in  which  every 
line  has  its  retrospective  meaning  and  value. 

Such  was  to  be  the  case  with  Mr.  Stephens  and  the 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     i8i 

curious  days  he  spent  in  Paris  seeking  for  John  Dam- 
pier.  He  was  there  a  whole  week,  and  every  succeed- 
ing day  was  packed  with  anxious,  exciting  interviews 
and  expeditions,  each  of  which  it  was  hoped  might 
yield  some  sort  of  clue.  But  what  remained  indeUbly 
fixed  on  the  English  lawyer's  screen  of  memory  were 
three  or  four  at  the  time  apparently  insignificant  con- 
versations which  in  no  case  could  have  done  much 
to  solve  the  problem  he  had  set  himself  to  solve. 

The  first  of  these  was  a  short  conversation,  in  the 
middle  of  that  busy  week,  with  Nancy  Dampier. 

After  the  first  interview  in  which  she  had  told  him 
her  version  of  what  had  happened  the  night  of  her 
own  and  her  husband's  arrival  in  Paris,  he  had  had 
very  little  talk  with  her,  and  at  no  time  had  he  ex- 
pressed any  opinion  as  to  what  could  have  happened 
to  John  Dampier.  But  at  last  he  felt  it  his  duty  to 
try  and  probe  a  little  more  than  he  had  felt  it  at  first 
possible  to  do  into  the  question  of  a  possible  motive 
or  motives. 

"I'm  afraid,"  he  began,  "that  there's  very  little 
more  to  do  than  has  been  already  done.  I  mean,  of 
course,  for  the  present.  And  in  your  place,  Nancy, 
I  should  come  back  to  England,  and  wait  there  for 
any  news  that  may  reach  you." 

As  she  shook  her  head  very  decidedly,  he  went 
on  gravely: — "I  know  it  is  open  to  you  to  remain  in 
Paris;  but,  my  dear,  I  carmot  beheve  that  your  hus- 
band is  in  Paris.    If  he  were,  we  must  by  now,  with 


i82     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

the  help  of  the  French  police — the  most  expert  in  the 
world,  remember — have  come  across  traces  of  him, 
and  that  whether  he  be  dead  or  alive." 

But  Nancy  did  not  take  the  meaning  he  had  hoped 
to  convey  by  that  last  word.     On  the  contrary: — 

"Do  you  think,"  she  asked,  and  though  her  lips 
quivered  she  spoke  very  quietly,  "that  Jack  is  dead, 
Mr.  Stephens?  I  know  that  Senator  Burton's  son 
has  come  to  believe  that  he  is." 

"No,"  said  the  English  lawyer  very  seriously,  "no, 
Nancy,  I  do  not  believe  that  your  husband  is  dead. 
It  is  clear  that  had  he  been  killed  or  injured  that  first 
morning  in  the  Paris  streets  we  should  know  it  by 
now.  The  police  assert,  and  I  have  no  reason  to 
doubt  them,  that  they  have  made  every  kind  of 
enquiry.  No,  they,  like  me,  beheve  that  your  hus- 
band has  left  Paris." 

"Left  Paris?"  repeated  Nancy  in  a  bewildered 
tone. 

"Yes,  my  dear.  As  to  his  motive  in  doing  so — I 
suppose — forgive  me  for  asking  you  such  a  question 
— I  suppose  that  you  and  he  were  on  quite  comfort- 
able and — well,  happy  terms  together?" 

Nancy  looked  at  him  amazed — and  a  look  of  great 
pain  and  indignation  flashed  into  her  face. 

"Why  of  course  we  were!"  she  faltered.  "Abso- 
lutely— ideally  happy!  You  didn't  know  Jack,  Mr. 
Stephens;  you  were  always  prejudiced  against  him. 
Why,  he's  never  said — I  won't  say  an  unkind  word, 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     183 

but  a  cold  or  indifferent  word  since  our  first  meeting. 
We  never  even  had  what  is  called" — again  her  lips 
quivered — "'a  lovers'  quarrel.'" 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said  earnestly,  "I  had  to  ask 
you.  The  question  as  to  what  kind  of  relations  you 
and  he  were  on  when  you  arrived  in  Paris  has  been 
raised  by  almost  every  human  being  whom  I  have 
seen  in  the  last  few  days." 

"  How  horrible !  How  horrible ! ' '  murmured  Nancy, 
hiding  her  face  in  her  hands. 

Then  she  raised  her  head,  and  looked  straight  at 
the  lawyer: — "Tell  anyone  that  asks  you  that,"  she 
exclaimed,  "that  no  woman  was  ever  made  happier 
by  a  man  than  my  Jack  made  me.  We  were  too 
happy.  He  said  so  that  last  evening — he  said,"  she 
ended  her  sentence  with  a  sob,  "that  his  happiness 
made  him  afraid " 

"Did  he?"  questioned  Mr.  Stephens  thoughtfully. 
"That  was  an  odd  thing  for  him  to  say,  Nancy." 

But  she  took  no  notice  of  the  remark.  Instead 
she,  in  her  turn,  asked  a  question: — "Do  the  police 
think  that  Jack  may  have  left  me  of  his  own  free 
will?" 

Mr.  Stephens  looked  extremely  uncomfortable. 
"Well,  some  of  them  have  thought  that  it  is  a  possi- 
bility which  should  be  kept  in  view." 

"But  you  do  not  think  so?"  She  looked  at  him 
searchingly. 

The  lawyer's  courage  failed  him. 


i84     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

"No,  of  course  not,"  he  said  hastily,  and  poor 
little  Nancy  believed  him. 

"And  now,"  he  went  on  quickly,  relieved  indeed 
to  escape  from  a  painful  and  difficult  subject,  "I,  my- 
self, must  go  home  on  Saturday.  Cannot  I  persuade 
you  to  come  back  to  England  with  me?  My  wife 
would  be  delighted  if  you  would  come  to  us — and  for 
as  long  as  you  like." 

She  hesitated — "No,  Mr.  Stephens,  you  are  very, 
very  kind,  but  I  would  rather  remain  on  in  Paris  for 
a  while.  Miss  Burton  has  asked  me  to  stay  with 
them  till  they  leave  for  America.  Once  they  are 
gone,  if  I  still  have  no  news,  I  will  do  what  you  wish. 
I  will  come  back  to  England." 

The  second  episode,  if  episode  it  can  be  called, 
which  was  to  remain  vividly  present  in  the  memory 
of  the  lawyer,  took  place  on  the  fifth  day  of  his  stay 
in  Paris. 

He  and  Gerald  had  exhausted  what  seemed  every 
possible  line  of  enquiry,  when  the  latter  put  in  plain 
words  what,  in  deference  to  his  father's  wish,  he  had 
hitherto  tried  to  conceal  from  Mr.  Stephens — his  sus- 
picions of  the  Poulains. 

"I  haven't  said  so  to  you  before,"  he  began  ab- 
ruptly, "but  I  feel  quite  sure  that  this  Mr.  John 
Dampier  is  dead." 

He  spoke  the  serious  words  in  low,  impressive  tones, 
and  the  words,  the  positive  assertion,  queerly  dis- 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     185 

turbed  Nancy's  lawyer,  and  that  though  he  did  not 
in  the  least  share  in  his  companion's  view.  But  still 
he  felt  disturbed,  perhaps  unreasonably  so  consider- 
ing how  very  little  he  still  knew  of  the  speaker.  He 
was  indeed  almost  as  disturbed  as  he  would  have  been 
had  it  been  his  own  son  who  had  suddenly  put  for- 
ward a  wrong  and  indeed  an  untenable  proposition. 

He  turned  and  faced  Gerald  Burton  squarely. 

"I  cannot  agree  with  you,"  he  spoke  with  con- 
siderable energy,  "and  I  am  sorry  you  have  got  such 
a  notion  in  your  mind.  I  am  quite  sure  that  John 
Dampier  is  alive.  He  may  be  in  confinement  some- 
where, held  to  ransom — things  of  that  sort  have  hap- 
pened in  Paris  before  now.  But  be  that  as  it  may, 
it  is  my  firm  conviction  that  we  shall  have  news 
of  him  within  a  comparatively  short  time.  Of  course 
I  cannot  help  seeing  what  you  suspect,  namely,  that 
there  has  been  foul  play  on  the  part  of  the  Poulains. 
But  no  other  human  being  holds  this  theory  but 
yourself.  Your  father — you  must  forgive  me  for  say- 
ing so — has  known  these  people  a  great  deal  longer 
than  you  have,  and  he  tells  me  he  would  stake  every- 
thing on  their  substantial  integrity.  And  the  police 
speak  very  highly  of  them  too.  Besides,  in  this  world 
one  must  look  for  a  motive — indeed,  one  must  always 
look  for  a  motive.  But  in  this  case  no  one  that  we 
know — I  repeat,  Mr.  Burton,  no  one  that  we  know  of 
— had  any  motive  for  injuring  Mr.  Dampier." 

Gerald  Burton  looked  up  quickly: — "You  mean  by 


i86     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

that  there  may  be  someone  whom  we  do  not  know  of 
who  may  have  had  a  motive  for  spiriting  him  away?" 

Mr.  Stephens  nodded  curtly.  He  had  not  meant 
to  say  even  so  much  as  that. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me,"  went  on  the  young  Amer- 
ican earnestly,  "exactly  what  sort  of  a  man  this  John 
Dampier  is— or  was?" 

The  lawyer  took  off  his  spectacles;  he  began  rub- 
bing the  glasses  carefully. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  last,  "that  isn't  a  question  I 
find  it  easy  to  answer.  I  made  a  certain  number  of 
enquiries  about  him  when  he  became  engaged  to  Miss 
Tremain,  and  I  am  bound  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Burton, 
that  the  answers,  as  far  as  they  went,  were  quite  sat- 
isfactory. The  gentleman  in  whose  house  the  two 
met — I  mean  poor  Nancy  and  Dampier — had,  and 
has,  an  extremely  high  opinion  of  him." 

"Mrs.  Dampier  once  spoke  to  me  as  if  she  thought 
you  did  not  like  her  husband?"  Gerald  Burton 
looked  straight  before  him  as  he  said  the  words  he 
felt  ashamed  of  uttering.  And  yet— and  yet  he  did 
so  want  to  know  the  truth  as  to  John  Dampier! 

Mr.  Stephens  looked  mildly  surprised.  "I  don't 
think  I  ever  gave  her  any  reason  to  suppose  such  a 
thing,"  he  said  hesitatingly.  "Mr.  Dampier  was 
eager,  as  all  men  in  love  are  eager,  to  hasten  on  the 
marriage.  You  see,  Mr.  Burton" — he  paused,  and 
Gerald  looked  up  quickly: — 

"Yes,  Mr.  Stephens?" 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     187 

"Well,  to  put  it  plainly,  John  Dampier  was  madly 
in  love" — the  speaker  thought  his  companion  winced, 
and,  rather  sorry  than  glad  at  the  success  of  his  little 
ruse,  he  hurried  on: — "that  being  so  he  naturally 
wished  to  be  married  at  once.  But  an  EngHsh  mar- 
riage settlement — especially  when  the  lady  has  the 
money,  which  was  the  case  with  Miss  Tremain — ■ 
cannot  be  drawn  up  in  a  few  days.  Nancy  herself 
was  willing  to  assent  to  everything  he  wished ;  in  fact 
I  had  to  point  out  to  her  that  it  is  impossible  to  get 
engaged  on  Monday  and  married  on  Tuesday!  I 
suppose  she  thought  that  because  I  very  properly 
objected  to  some  such  scheme  of  theirs,  I  disliked 
John  Dampier.  This  was  a  most  unreasonable  con- 
clusion, Mr.  Burton!" 

Gerald  Burton  felt  disappointed.  He  did  not  be- 
lieve that  the  English  lawyer  was  answering  truly. 
He  did  not  stay  to  reflect  that  Mr.  Stephens  was  not 
bound  to  answer  indiscreet  questions,  and  that  when 
a  young  man  asks  an  older  man  whether  or  no  he 
dislikes  someone,  and  that  someone  is  a  client,  the 
question  is  certainly  indiscreet. 

In  a  small  way  the  painful  mystery  was  further 
complicated  by  the  attitude  of  Mere  Bideau.  Bribes 
and  threats  were  alike  unavailing  to  make  the  old 
Breton  woman  open  her  mouth.  She  was  full  of  sus- 
picion; she  refused  to  answer  the  simplest  questions 
put  to  her  by  either  Mr.  Stephens  or  Gerald  Burton. 


i88     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

And  the  lawyer  felt  a  moment  of  sharp  impatience, 
as  business  men  are  so  often  apt  to  feel  in  their  deal- 
ings with  women,  when,  in  answer  to  his  remark 
that  Mere  Bideau  would  be  brought  to  her  knees 
when  she  found  her  supplies  cut  ofif,  Nancy,  with 
tears  running  down  her  cheeks,  cried  out  in  protest: 
— "Oh,  Mr.  Stephens,  don't  say  that!  I  would  far 
rather  go  on  paying  the  old  woman  for  ever  than  that 
she  should  be  brought,  as  you  say,  to  her  knees. 
She  was  such  a  good  servant  to  Jack:  he  is — he  was 
— so  fond  of  her." 

But  Mere  Bideau's  attitude  greatly  disconcerted 
and  annoyed  the  EngHshman.  He  wondered  if  the 
old  woman  knew  more  than  she  would  admit;  he 
even  suspected  her  of  knowing  the  whereabouts  of 
her  master;  the  more  impenetrable  became  the  mys- 
tery, the  less  IMr.  Stephens  believed  Dampier  to  be 
dead. 

And  then,  finally,  on  the  last  day  of  his  stay  in 
Paris  something  happened  which,  to  the  lawyer's 
mind,  confirmed  his  view  that  John  Dampier,  having 
vanished  of  his  own  free  will,  was  living  and  well — 
though  he  hoped  not  happy — away  from  the  great 
city  which  had  been  searched,  or  so  the  police  assured 
the  Englishman,  with  a  thoroughness  which  had  never 
been  surpassed  if  indeed  it  had  ever  been  equalled. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

With  Mr.  Stephens'  morning  coffee  there  appeared 
an  envelope  bearing  his  name  and  a  French  stamp, 
as  well  of  course  as  the  address  of  the  obscure  little 
hotel  where  the  Burtons  had  found  him  a  room. 

The  lawyer  looked  down  at  the  envelope  with  great 
surprise.  The  address  was  written  in  a  round,  copy- 
book hand,  and  it  was  clear  his  name  must  have  been 
copied  out  of  an  Enghsh  law  list. 

Who  in  Paris  could  be  writing  to  him — who,  for 
the  matter  of  that,  knew  where  he  was  staying,  apart 
from  his  own  family  and  his  London  office? 

He  broke  the  seal  and  saw  that  the  sheet  of  note- 
paper  he  took  from  the  envelope  was  headed  "Pre- 
fecture de  PoHce."  Hitherto  the  police  had  addressed 
all  their  communications  to  the  Hotel  Saint  Ange. 

The  letter  ran  as  follows : 

Dear  Sir, 

I  am  requested  by  the  official  who  has  the  Dam- 
pier  affair  in  hand  to  ask  you  if  you  will  come  here 
this  afternoon  at  three  o'clock.  As  I  shall  be 
present  and  can  act  as  interpreter,  it  will  not 
be  necessary  for  you  to  be  accompanied  as  you 
were  before.  Yours  faithfully, 

Ivan  Baroff. 
189 


iQo     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

What  an  extraordinary  thing!  Up  to  the  present 
time  Mr.  Stephens  had  not  communicated  with  a 
single  police  official  able  to  speak  colloquial  English; 
it  was  that  fact  which  had  made  him  find  Gerald  Bur- 
ton so  invaluable  an  auxiliary.  But  this  letter  might 
have  been  written  by  an  Englishman,  though  the  sig- 
nature showed  it  to  be  from  a  foreigner,  and  from  a 
Pole,  or  possibly  a  Russian. 

Were  the  police  at  last  on  the  trail  of  the  missing 
man?  Mr.  Stephens'  well-regulated  heart  began  to 
beat  quicker  at  the  thought.  But  if  so,  how  strange 
that  the  Prefect  of  Police  had  not  communicated  with 
the  Hotel  Saint  Ange  last  night!  Monsieur  Beau- 
court  had  promised  that  the  smallest  scrap  of  news 
should  be  at  once  transmitted  to  John  Dampier's  wife. 

Well,  there  was  evidently  nothing  for  it  but  to 
wait  with  what  patience  he  could  muster  till  the 
afternoon;  and  it  was  characteristic  of  Nancy's  legal 
friend  that  he  said  nothing  of  his  mysterious  appoint- 
ment to  either  the  Burtons  or  to  Mrs.  Dampier.  It 
was  useless  to  raise  hopes  which  might  so  easily  be 
disappointed. 

Three  o'clock  found  Mr.  Stephens  at  the  Prefec- 
ture of  Police. 

"Ivan  Baroff"  turned  out  to  be  a  polished  and 
agreeable  person  who  at  once  frankly  explained  that 
he  belonged  to  the  International  Police.  Indeed  while 
shaking  hands  with  his  visitor  he  observed  pleasantly, 
"This  is  not  the  kind  of  work  with  which  I  have,  as 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     191 

a  rule,  anything  to  do,  but  my  colleagues  have  asked 
me  to  see  you,  Mr.  Stephens,  because  I  have  hved  in 
England,  and  am  famihar  with  your  difficult  lan- 
guage. I  wish  to  entertain  you  on  a  rather  delicate 
matter.  I  am  sure  I  may  count  on  your  discretion, 
and,  may  I  add,  your  syrapathy?" 

The  English  lawyer  looked  straight  at  the  suave- 
spoken  detective.  What  the  devil  did  the  man  mean? 
"Certainly,"  said  he,  "certainly  you  can  count  on 
my  discretion.  Monsieur  Baroff,  and — and  my  sym- 
pathy. I  hope  I  am  not  unreasonable  in  hoping  that 
at  last  the  police  have  obtained  some  kind  of  clue 
to  Mr.  Dampier's  whereabouts." 

"No,"  said  the  other  indifferently.  "That  I  re- 
gret to  tell  you  is  not  the  case;  they  are,  however, 
prosecuting  their  enquiries  with  the  greatest  zeal — 
of  that  you  may  rest  assured." 

"So  I  have  been  told  again  and  again,"  Mr. 
Stephens  spoke  rather  impatiently.  ''It  seems  strange 
— I  think  I  may  say  so  to  you  who  are,  like  myself,  a 
foreigner — it  seems  strange,  I  say,  that  the  French 
police,  who  are  supposed  to  be  so  extraordinarily 
clever,  should  have  failed  to  find  even  a  trace  of  this 
missing  man.  Mr.  John  Dampier  can't  have  van- 
ished from  the  face  of  the  earth:  dead  or  alive,  he 
must  be  somewhere!" 

"There  is  of  course  no  proof  at  all  that  Mr.  Dam- 
pier  ever  arrived  in  Paris,"  observed  the  detective 
significantly. 


192     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

"No,  there  is  no  actual  proof  that  he  did  so,"  re- 
plied the  Enghsh  solicitor  frankly,  "There  I  agree! 
But  there  is  ample  proof  that  he  was  coming  to  Paris. 
And,  as  I  suppose  you  know,  the  Paris  police  have 
satisfied  themselves  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dampier 
stayed  both  in  Marseilles  and  in  Lyons." 

"Yes,  I  am  aware  of  that;  as  also "  he  checked 

himself.  "But  what  I  have  to  say  to  you  to-day,  my 
dear  sir,  is  only  indirectly  concerned  with  Mr.  Dam- 
pier's  disappearance.  I  am  really  here  to  ask  if  you 
cannot  exert  your  influence  with  the  Burton  family, 
with  the  American  Senator,  that  is,  and  more  par- 
ticularly with  his  son,  to  behave  in  a  reasonable  man- 
ner." 

"I  don't  quite  understand  what  you  mean." 

"Well,  it  is  not  so  very  easy  to  explain!  All  I  can 
say  is  that  young  Mr.  Burton  is  making  himself  very 
officious,  and  very  disagreeable.  He  has  adopted  a 
profession  which  here,  at  the  Prefecture  of  Police,  we 
naturally  detest" — the  Russian  smiled,  but  not  at 
all  pleasantly — "I  mean  that  of  the  amateur  detect- 
ive! He  is  determined  to  find  Mr.  Dampier — or 
perhaps  it  would  be  more  true  to  say" — he  shrugged 
his  shoulders — "that  he  wishes — the  wish  perhaps 
being,  as  you  so  cleverly  say  in  England,  father  to 
the  thought — to  be  quite  convinced  of  that  unfor- 
tunate gentleman's  obliteration  from  life.  He  has 
brought  himself  to  believe — but  perhaps  he  has 
already  told  you  what  he  thinks ?" 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     193 

He  waited  a  moment. 

But  the  English  lawyer  made  no  sign  of  having 
understood  what  the  other  wished  to  imply.  ''They 
have  all  talked  to  me,"  he  said  mildly,  "Senator  Bur- 
ton, Mr.  Burton,  Miss  Burton;  every  conceivable  pos- 
sibility has  been  discussed  by  us." 

"Indeed?  Well,  with  so  many  clever  people  all 
trying  together  it  would  be  strange  if  not  one  hit  upon 
the  truth!"  The  detective  spoke  with  good-natured 
sarcasm. 

"Perhaps  we  have  hit  upon  it,"  said  Mr.  Stephens 
suddenly.     "What  do  you  think.  Monsieur  Baroff?" 

"I  do  not  think  at  all!"  he  said  pettishly.  "I  am 
far  too  absorbed  in  my  own  tiresome  job — that  of 
keeping  my  young  Princes  and  Grand  Dukes  out  of 
scrapes — to  trouble  about  this  peculiar  afifair.  But 
to  return  to  what  I  was  saying.  You  are  of  course 
aware  that  Mr.  Gerald  Burton  is  convinced,  and  very 
foolishly  convinced  (for  there  is  not  an  atom  of  proof, 
or  of  anything  likely  to  lead  to  proof),  that  this  Mr. 
Dampier  was  murdered,  if  not  by  the  Poulains,  then 
by  some  friend  of  theirs  in  the  Hotel  Saint  Ange. 
The  foolish  fellow  has  as  good  as  said  so  to  more  than 
one  of  our  officials." 

"I  know  such  is  Mr.  Burton's  theory,"  answered 
Mr.  Stephens  frankly,  "and  it  is  one  very  difl5cult  to 
shake.  In  fact  I  may  tell  you  that  I  have  already  tried 
to  make  him  see  the  folly  of  the  notion,  and  how  it  is 
almost  certainly  far  from  the  truth." 


194     THE  END   OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

"It  is  not  only  far  from  the  truth,  it  is  absolutely 
ttwtrue,"  said  the  Russian  impressively.  "But  what 
I  now  wish  to  convey  to  the  young  man  is  that  should 
he  be  so  ill-advised  as  to  do  what  he  is  thinking  of 
doing  he  will  make  it  very  disagreeable  for  the  lady 
in  whom  he  takes  so  strangely  violent  an  interest " 

"What  exactly  do  you  mean,  Monsieur  Baroff?" 

"This  Mr.  Gerald  Burton  is  thinking  of  enlisting 
the  help  of  the  American  newspaper  men  in  Paris. 
He  wishes  them  to  raise  the  question  in  their  jour- 
nals." 

"I  do  not  think  he  would  do  that  without  con- 
sulting his  father  or  me,"  said  Mr.  Stephens  quickly. 
He  felt  dismayed  by  the  other's  manner.  Monsieur 
Baroff 's  tone  had  become  menacing,  almost  discour- 
teous. 

"Should  this  headstrong  young  man  do  anything 
of  that  kind,"  went  on  the  detective,  "he  will  put  an 
end  to  the  efforts  we  are  making  to  find  Mrs.  Dam- 
pier's  husband.  In  fact  I  think  I  may  say  that  if 
the  mystery  is  never  solved,  it  will  be  thanks  to  his 
headstrong  folly  and  belief  in  himself." 

With  this  the  disagreeable  interview  came  to  an 
end,  and  though  the  English  lawyer  never  confided 
the  details  of  this  curious  conversation  to  any  living 
soul,  he  did  make  an  opportunity  of  conveying  Ivan 
Baroff's  warning  to  Gerald  Burton. 

"Before  leaving  Paris,"  he  said  earnestly,  "there 
is  one  thing  I  want  to  impress  upon  you,  Mr.  Burton. 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     195 

Do  not  let  any  newspaper  people  get  hold  of  this 
story;  I  can  imagine  nothing  that  would  more  dis- 
tress poor  Mrs.  Dampier,  She  would  be  exposed  to 
very  odious  happenings  if  this  disappearance  of  her 
husband  were  made,  in  any  wide  sense  of  the  word, 
public.  And  then  I  need  not  tell  you  that  the  Paris 
PoKce  have  a  very  great  dislike  to  press  pubHcity; 
they  are  doing  their  very  best — of  that  I  am  con- 
vinced— to  probe  the  mystery." 

Gerald  Burton  hesitated.  "I  should  have 
thought,"  he  said,  "that  it  would  at  least  be  worth 
while  to  offer  a  reward  in  all  the  Paris  papers.  I  find 
that  such  rewards  are  often  offered  in  England,  Mr. 
Stephens." 

"Yes — they  are.  And  very,  very  seldom  with  any 
good  result,"  answered  the  lawyer  drily.  "In  fact 
all  the  best  minds  concerned  with  the  question  of 
crime  have  a  great  disHke  to  the  reward  system.  Not 
once  in  a  hundred  cases  is  it  of  any  use.  In  fact  it 
is  only  valuable  when  it  may  induce  a  criminal  to 
turn  'King's  evidence.'  But  in  this  case  I  pray  you 
to  believe  me  when  I  say  that  we  are  not  seeking  to 

discover  the  track  of  any  criminal "  in  his  own 

mind  he  added  the  words,  "unless  we  take  John 
Dampier  to  be  one!" 

It  was  on  the  morning  of  Mr.  Stephens'  depar- 
ture from  Paris,  in  fact  when  he  and  Senator  Burton, 
who  had  gone  to  see  him  off,  were  actually  in  the  sta- 


196     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

tion,  walking  up  and  down  the  Salle  des  Pas  Perdus, 
that  the  lawyer  uttered  the  words  which  finally  made 
up  the  American  Senator's  mind  for  him. 

"You  have  been  so  more  than  good  to  Mrs.  Dam- 
pier,"  the  Enghshman  said  earnestly,  "that  I  do  not 
feel  it  would  be  fair,  Mr.  Senator,  to  leave  you  in 
ignorance  of  my  personal  conviction  concerning  this 
painful  affair." 

The  American  turned  and  looked  at  his  compan- 
ion. "Yes?"  he  said  with  suppressed  eagerness. 
"Yes,  Mr.  Stephens,  I  shall  be  sincerely  grateful  for 
your  honest  opinion." 

They  had  all  three — he  and  Daisy  and  Gerald — 
tried  to  make  this  Englishman  say  what  he  really 
thought,  but  with  a  courtesy  that  was  sometimes 
grave,  sometimes  smiling,  Mr.  Stephens  had  eluded 
their  surely  legitimate  curiosity. 

Even  now  the  lawyer  hesitated,  but  at  last  he 
spoke  out  what  he  believed  to  be  the  truth. 

"It  is  my  honest  opinion  that  this  disappearance 
of  Mr.  Dampier  is  painful  rather  than  mysterious. 
I  believe  that  poor  Nancy  Tremain's  bridegroom,  ac- 
tuated by  some  motive  to  which  we  may  never  have 
the  clue,  made  up  his  mind  to  disappear.  When 
faced  with  responsibilities  for  which  they  have  no 
mind  men  before  now  have  often  disappeared,  Mr. 
Senator.  Lawyers  and  doctors,  if  their  experience 
extend  over  a  good  many  years,  come  across  stories 
even  more  extraordinary  than  that  which  has  been 
concerning  us  now!" 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     197 

"I  take  it,"  said  Senator  Burton  slowly,  "that  you 
did  not  form  a  good  impression  of  this  Mr.  Dam- 
pier?" 

The  lawyer  again  hesitated,  much  as  he  had  hes- 
itated when  asked  the  same  question  by  young  Bur- 
ton, but  this  time  he  answered  quite  truthfully. 

"Well,  no,  I  did  not!  True,  he  seemed  entirely 
indifferent  as  to  how  the  money  of  his  future  wife 
was  settled;  indeed  I  could  not  help  feeling  that  he 
was  culpably  careless  about  the  whole  matter.  But 
even  so  I  had  one  or  two  very  disagreeable  interviews 
with  him.  You  see.  Senator  Burton,  the  man  was 
madly  in  love;  he  had  persuaded  poor  Nancy  to  be 
married  at  once — and  by  at  once  I  mean  within  a 
fortnight  of  their  engagement.  He  seemed  strangely 
afraid  of  losing  her,  and  I  keenly  resented  this  feeling 
on  his  part,  for  a  more  loyal  little  soul  doesn't  Hve, 
She  has  quite  a  nice  fortune,  you  know,  and  for  my 
part  I  should  have  liked  her  to  marry  some  honest 
country  gentleman  in  her  own  country — not  an 
artist  living  in  Paris." 

"You  don't  attach  much  importance  to  lovq,Mr. 
Stephens?" 

The  lawyer  laughed.  "Quite  enough!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "Love  causes  more  trouble  in  the  world 
than  everything  else  put  together — at  any  rate  it  does 
to  members  of  my  profession.  But  to  return  to  poor 
Nancy.  She's  a  fascinating  Httle  creature!"  He 
shot  a  quick  glance  at  Senator  Burton,  but  the  lat- 
ter only  said  cordially: — 


198     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

"Yes,  as  fascinating  as  she's  pretty!" 

"Well,  she  had  plenty  of  chances  of  making  a  good 
marriage — but  no  one  touched  her  heart  till  this  big, 
ugly  fellow  came  along.  So  of  course  I  had  to  make 
the  best  of  it!"  He  waited  a  moment  and  then  went 
on.  "I  ought  to  tell  you  that  at  my  suggestion  Dam- 
pier  took  out  a  large  insurance  policy  on  his  own  life: 
I  didn't  think  it  right  that  he  should  bring,  as  it  were, 
nothing  into  settlement,  the  more  so  that  Nancy  had 
insisted,  on  her  side,  that  all  her  money  should  go  to 
him  at  her  death,  and  that  whether  they  had  any 
children  or  not!  You  know  what  women  are?"  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"If  that  be  so,"  observed  the  Senator,  "then  money 
can  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  his  disappearance." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that!  In  fact  I've  been  won- 
dering uneasily  during  the  last  few  days  whether, 
owing  to  his  being  an  artist,  and  to  his  having  Hved 
so  much  abroad,  John  Dampier  could  have  been  fool- 
ish enough  to  suppose  that  in  the  case  of  his  disap- 
pearance the  insurance  money  would  be  paid  over  to 
Mrs.  Dampier.  That,  of  course,  would  be  one  impor- 
tant reason  why  he  should  wish  to  obliterate  himself 
as  completely  as  he  seems  to  have  done.  I  need 
hardly  tell  you,  Mr.  Senator,  that  the  Insurance  Office 
would  laugh  in  my  face  if  I  were  to  try  and  make 
them  pay.  Why,  years  will  have  to  elapse  before 
our  courts  would  even  consider  the  probability  of 
death." 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     199 

"I  now  understand  your  view,"  said  the  Senator 
gravely.  "But  even  if  it  be  the  true  solution,  it  does 
not  explain  the  inexplicable  difference  between  Mrs. 
Dampier's  statement  and  that  of  the  Poulains — I 
mean,  their  statements  as  to  what  happened  the 
night  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dampier  arrived  in  Paris." 

"No,"  said  the  lawyer  reluctantly.  "I  admit  that 
to  me  this  is  the  one  inexplicable  part  of  the  whole 
story.  And  I  also  confess  that  as  to  that  one  matter 
I  find  it  impossible  to  make  up  my  mind.  If  I  had 
not  known  poor  little  Nancy  all  her  Hfe,  I  should  be- 
lieve, knowing  what  women  are  capable  of  doing  if 
urged  thereto  by  pride  or  pain — I  should  beUeve,  I 
say,  that  she  had  made  up  this  strange  story  to  ac- 
count for  her  husband's  having  left  her!  I  could  tell 
you  more  than  one  tale  of  a  woman  having  deceived 
not  only  her  lawyer,  but,  later,  a  judge  and  a  jury,  as 
to  such  a  point  of  fact.  But  from  what  I  know  of 
Mrs.  Dampier  she  would  be  quite  incapable  of  invent- 
ing, or  perhaps  what  is  quite  as  much  to  the  purpose, 
of  keeping  up  such  a  deception." 

"From  something  my  daughter  said,"  observed 
Senator  Burton,  "I  think  you  have  been  trying  to 
persuade  the  poor  little  lady  to  go  back  to  England?" 

"Yes,  I  tried  to  make  her  come  back  with  me  to- 
day. And  I  am  bound  to  say  that  I  succeeded  bet- 
ter than  I  expected  to  do,  for  though  she  refuses  to 
come  now,  she  does  intend  to  do  so  when  you  your- 
selves leave  Paris,  Mr.  Senator.    Fortunately  she  does 


200    THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

not  know  what  sort  of  a  time  she  will  come  back  to: 
I  fear  that  most  of  her  friends  will  feel  exactly  as  I 
feel;  they  will  not  beheve  that  John  Dampier  has 
disappeared  save  of  his  own  free  will — and  some  of 
them  will  suppose  it  their  duty  to  tell  her  so!" 

"It  is  the  view  evidently  held  by  the  French  police," 
observed  the  Senator. 

The  EngHsh  lawyer  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Of 
course  it  is!  The  fact  that  Dampier  had  hardly  any 
money  on  him  disposes  of  any  crime  theory.  A  won- 
derful thing  the  Paris  police  system,  Mr.  Burton!" 

And  the  other  cordially  agreed ;  nothing  could  have 
been  more  courteous,  more  kind,  more  intelligent, 
than  the  behaviour  of  the  high  police  officials,  from 
the  Prefect  himself  downwards,  over  the  whole  busi- 
ness. 

Mr.  Stephens  glanced  up  at  the  huge  station  clock. 
"I  have  only  five  minutes  left,"  he  said.  "But  I 
want  to  say  again  how  much  I  appreciate  your  ex- 
traordinary kindness  and  goodness  to  my  poor  cHent. 
And,  Mr.  Senator?  There's  just  one  thing  more  I 
want  to  say  to  you "  For  the  first  time  the  Eng- 
lish lawyer  looked  awkward  and  ill  at  ease. 

"Why  yes,  Mr.  Stephens!  Pray  say  anything  you 
like." 

"Well,  my  dear  sir,  I  should  like  to  give  you  a  very 
sincere  piece  of  advice."  He  hesitated.  "If  I  were 
you  I  should  go  back  to  America  as  soon  as  possible. 
I  feel  this  sad  affair  has  thoroughly  spoilt  your  visit 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     201 

to  Paris;  and  speaking  as  a  man  who  has  children 
himself,  I  am  sure  it  has  not  been  well,  either  for  Miss 
Daisy  or  for  your  son,  to  have  become  absorbed,  as 
they  could  hardly  help  becoming,  in  this  distressing 
business." 

The  American  felt  slightly  puzzled  by  the  serious- 
ness with  which  the  other  delivered  this  well-meant 
but  wholly  superfluous  advice.  What  just  exactly 
did  the  lawyer  mean  by  these  solemnly  delivered 
words? 

"Why,"  said  the  Senator,  "you're  quite  right,  Mr. 
Stephens;  it  has  been  an  ordeal,  especially  for  my  girl 
Daisy:  she  hasn't  had  air  and  exercise  enough  during 
this  last  fortnight,  let  alone  change  of  thought  and 
scene.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  am  settHng  about 
our  passages  to-day,  on  my  way  back  to  the  hotel." 

"I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that!"  exclaimed  the  other, 
with  far  more  satisfaction  and  relief  in  his  voice  than 
seemed  warranted.  "And  I  presume  that  your  son 
will  find  lots  of  work  awaiting  him  on  his  return  home? 
There's  nothing  like  work  to  chase  cobwebs  from  the 
brain  or — or  heart,  Mr.  Senator." 

"That's  true:  not  that  there  are  many  cobwebs  in 
my  boy's  brain,  Mr.  Stephens,"  he  smiled  broadly 
at  the  notion. 

' '  Messieurs !  Mesdames  I  En  voiture,  sHl  vous  plait. 
En  voiture .'" 

A  few  minutes  later  Mr.  Stephens  waved  his  hand 
from  his  railway  carriage,  and  as  he  did  so  he  won- 


202     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

dered  if  he  himself  had  ever  been  as  obtuse  a  father  as 
his  new  American  friend  seemed  to  be. 

As  he  walked  away  from  the  station  Senator  Burton 
made  up  his  mind  to  go  back  on  foot,  taking  the  office 
of  the  Transatlantic  Steamship  Company  on  his  way. 
And  while  he  sauntered  through  the  picturesque,  hvely 
streets  of  the  Paris  he  loved  with  so  familiar  and 
appreciative  an  admiration,  the  American  found  his 
thoughts  dwelling  on  the  events  of  the  last  fort- 
night. 

Yes,  it  had  been  a  strange,  an  extraordinary  ex- 
perience— one  which  he  and  his  children  would  never 
forget,  which  they  would  often  talk  over  in  days  to 
come.  Poor  Httle  Nancy  Dampier!  His  kind,  fa- 
therly heart  went  out  to  her  with  a  good  deal  of  af- 
fection, and  yes,  of  esteem.  She  had  behaved  with 
wonderful  courage  and  good  sense — and  with  dignity 
too,  when  one  remembered  the  extraordinary  position 
in  which  she  had  been  placed  with  regard  to  the  Pou- 
lains. 

The  Poulains?  For  the  hundredth  time  he  won- 
dered where  the  truth  really  lay.  .  .  .  But  he  soon 
dismissed  the  difficult  problem,  for  now  he  had  reached 
the  offices  of  the  French  Transatlantic  Company. 
There  the  Senator's  official  rank  caused  him  to  be 
treated  with  very  special  civility;  at  once  he  was 
assured  that  three  passages  would  be  reserved  for 
him  on  practically  what  boat  he  liked:  he  suggested 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     203 

the  Lorraine,  sailing  in  ten  days  time,  and  he  had 
the  satisfaction  of  seeing  good  cabins  booked  in  his 
name. 

And  as  he  walked  away,  slightly  cheered,  as  men 
are  apt  to  be,  by  the  pleasant  deference  paid  to  his 
wishes,  he  told  himself  that  before  leaving  Paris  he 
must  arrange  for  a  cable  to  be  at  once  dispatched 
should  there  come  any  news  of  the  mysterious,  and 
at  once  unknown  and  famiHar,  John  Dampier.  Mrs. 
Dampier  would  surely  find  his  request  a  natural  one, 
the  more  so  that  Daisy  and  Gerald  would  be  just  as 
eager  to  hear  news  as  he  himself  would  be.  He  had 
never  known  anything  take  so  firm  a  hold  of  his  son's 
and  daughter's  imaginations. 

On  reaching  the  Hotel  Saint  Ange  the  Senator  went 
over  to  Madame  Poulain's  kitchen;  it  was  only  right 
to  give  her  the  date  of  their  departure  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. 

"Well,"  he  said  with  a  touch  of  regret  in  his  voice, 
"we  shall  soon  be  going  off  now,  Madame  Poulain. 
Next  Tuesday-week  you  will  have  to  wish  us  hon 
voyage!'^ 

And  instead  of  seeing  the  good  woman's  face  cloud 
over,  as  it  had  always  hitherto  clouded  over,  when 
he  had  sought  her  out  to  say  that  their  stay  in  Paris 
was  drawing  to  a  close,  he  saw  a  look  of  intense  relief, 
of  undisguised  joy,  flash  into  her  dark  expressive 
eyes,  and  that  though  she  observed  civilly,  "Quel 


204     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

dommage,  Monsieur  le  Senateur,  that  you  cannot  stay 
a  little  longer!" 

He  moved  away  abruptly,  feeling  unreasonably 
mortified. 

But  Senator  Burton  was  a  very  just  man;  he 
prided  himself  on  his  fairness  of  outlook;  and  now  he 
reminded  himself  quickly  that  their  stay  at  the  Hotel 
Saint  Ange  had  not  brought  unmixed  good  fortune 
to  the  Poulains.  It  was  natural  that  Madame  Pou- 
lain  should  long  to  see  the  last  of  them — at  any  rate 
this  time. 

He  found  Gerald  alone,  seated  at  a  table,  intent  on 
a  letter  he  was  writing.  Daisy,  it  seemed,  had  per- 
suaded Mrs.  Dampier  to  go  out  for  a  walk  before 
luncheon. 

"Well,  my  boy,  we  shall  have  to  make  the  best  of 
the  short  time  remaining  to  us  in  Paris.  I  have  se- 
cured passages  in  the  Lorraine,  and  so  we  now  only 
have  till  Tuesday-week  to  see  everything  in  Paris 
which  this  unhappy  affair  has  prevented  our  seeing 
during  the  last  fortnight." 

And  then  it  was  that  the  something  happened,  that 
the  irreparable  words  were  spoken,  which  suddenly 
and  most  rudely  opened  the  Senator's  eyes  to  a  truth 
which  the  English  lawyer  had  seen  almost  from  the 
first  moment  of  his  stay  in  Paris. 

Gerald  Burton  started  up.  His  face  was  curiously 
pale  under  its  healthy  tan,  but  the  Senator  noticed 
that  his  son's  eyes  were  extraordinarily  bright. 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     205 

"Father?"  He  leant  across  the  round  table.  "I 
am  not  going  home  with  you.  In  fact  I  am  now 
writing  to  Mr.  Webb  to  tell  him  that  he  must  not 
expect  me  back  at  the  office  for  the  present:  I  will 
cable  as  soon  as  I  can  give  him  a  date." 

"Not  going  home?"  repeated  Senator  Burton. 
"What  do  you  mean,  Gerald?  What  is  it  that  should 
keep  you  here  after  we  have  gone?"  but  a  curious 
sensation  of  fear  and  dismay  was  already  clutching 
at  the  older  man's  heart. 

"I  am  never  going  back — not  till  John  Dampier  is 
found.  I  have  promised  Mrs.  Dampier  to  find  him, 
and  that  whether  he  be  alive  or  dead!" 

Even  then  the  Senator  tried  not  to  understand. 
Even  then  he  tried  to  tell  himself  that  his  son  was 
only  actuated  by  some  chivalrous  notion  of  keeping 
his  word,  in  determining  on  a  course  which  might 
seriously  damage  his  career. 

He  tried  quiet  expostulation:  "Surely,  Gerald,  you 
are  not  serious  in  making  such  a  decision?  Mrs.  Dam- 
pier, from  what  I  know  of  her,  would  be  the  last  to 
exact  from  you  the  fulfilment  of  so — so  unreasonable 
a  promise.  Why,  you  and  I  both  know  quite  well 
that  the  Paris  police,  and  also  Mr.  Stephens,  are  con- 
vinced that  this  man  Dampier  just  left  his  wife  of  his 
own  free  will." 

"I  know  they  think  that!  But  it's  a  lie!"  cried 
Gerald  with  blazing  eyes.  "An  infamous  lie!  I 
should  Uke  to  see  Mr.  Stephens  dare  suggest  such  a 


2o6     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

notion  to  John  Dampier's  wife.  Not  that  she  is  his 
wife,  father,  for  I'm  sure  the  man  is  dead— and  I 
believe— I  hope  that  she's  beginnmg  to  think  so 
too!" 

"But  if  Dampier  is  dead,  Gerald,  then "  the 

Senator  was  beginning  to  lose  patience,  but  he  was 
anxious  not  to  lose  his  temper  too,  not  to  make  him- 
self more  unpleasant  than  he  must  do.  "Surely  you 
see  yourself,  my  boy,  that  if  the  man  is  dead,  there's 
nothing  more  for  you  to  do  here,  in  Paris?" 

"Father,  there's  everything !  The  day  I  make  sure 
that  John  Dampier  is  dead  will  be  the  happiest  day 
of  my  Ufe."  His  voice  had  sunk  low,  he  muttered 
the  last  words  between  his  teeth;  but  alas!  the  Sen- 
ator heard  them  all  too  clearly. 

"Gerald!"  he  said  gravely.  "Gerald?  Am  I  to 
understand " 

"Father — don't  say  anything  you  might  be  sorry 
for  afterwards !  Yes,  you  have  guessed  truly.  I  love 
Nancy !  If  the  man  is  dead — and  I  trust  to  God  he 
is — I  hope  to  marry  her  some  day.  If — if  you  and 
Mr.  Stephens  are  right — if  he  is  still  alive — well 
then— — "  he  waited  a  moment,  and  that  moment  was 
the  longest  the  Senator  had  ever  known — "then, 
father,  I  promise  you  I  will  come  home.  But  in  that 
case  I  shall  never,  never  marry  anybody  else.  Daisy 
knows,"  went  on  the  young  man,  unconsciously  deal- 
ing his  father  another  bitter  blow.  "Daisy  knows 
— she  guessed,  and — she  understands." 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     207 

"And  does  she  approve?"  asked  the  Senator 
sternly. 

"I  don't  know — I  don't  care!"  cried  Gerald  jSercely. 
"I  am  not  looking  for  anyone's  approval.  And,  fa- 
ther? "  His  voice  altered,  it  became  what  the  other 
had  never  heard  his  son's  voice  be,  suppliant: — "I 
have  trusted  you  with  my  secret — but  let  it  be  from 
now  as  if  I  had  not  spoken.  I  beg  of  you  not  to  dis- 
cuss it  with  Daisy — I  need  not  ask  you  not  to  speak 
of  it  to  anybody  else." 

The  Senator  nodded.  He  was  too  agitated,  too 
horror-stricken  to  speak,  and  his  agitation  was  not 
lessened  by  his  son's  final  words. 


EPILOGUE 


It  is  two  years  to  a  day  since  John  Dampier  disap- 
peared, and  it  is  only  owing  to  one  man's  inflexible 
determination  that  the  search  for  him  has  not  been 
abandoned  long  ago. 

And  now  we  meet  Senator  Burton  far  in  body,  if 
not  in  mind,  from  the  place  where  we  last  met  him. 

He  is  standing  by  an  open  window,  gazing  down 
on  one  of  the  fairest  sights  civilised  nature  has  to 
offer — that  of  an  old  EngUsh  garden  filled  with  fra- 
grant flowers  which  form  scented  boundaries  of  soft 
brilliant  colour  to  wide  lawns  shaded  by  great  cedar 
trees. 

But  as  he  stands  there  in  the  early  morning  sun- 
light, for  it  is  only  six  o'clock,  he  does  not  look  in 
harmony  with  the  tranquil  beauty  of  the  scene  be- 
fore him.  There  is  a  stern,  troubled  expression  on 
his  face,  for  he  has  just  espied  two  figures  walking 
side  by  side  across  the  dewy  grass;  the  one  is  his  son 
Gerald,  the  other  Nancy  Dampier,  still  in  the  delicate 
and  dangerous  position  of  a  woman  who  is  neither 
wife,  maid,  nor  widow. 

208 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     209 

The  Senator's  whole  expression  has  changed  in  the 
two  years.  He  used  to  look  a  happy,  contented  man ; 
now,  especially  when  he  is  alone  and  his  face  is  in 
repose,  he  has  the  disturbed,  bewildered  expression 
men's  faces  bear  when  Providence  or  Fate — call  it 
which  you  will — has  treated  them  in  a  way  they  feel 
to  be  unbearably  unfair,  as  well  as  unexpected. 

And  yet  the  majority  of  mankind  would  consider 
this  American  to  be  supremely  blessed.  The  two 
children  he  loves  so  dearly  are  as  fondly  attached  to 
him  as  ever  they  were;  and  there  has  also  befallen 
him  a  piece  of  quite  unexpected  good  fortune.  A 
distant  relation,  from  whom  he  had  no  expectations, 
has  left  him  a  fortune  "as  a  token  of  admiration  for 
his  high  integrity." 

Senator  Burton  is  now  a  very  rich  man,  and  be- 
cause Daisy  fancied  it  would  please  her  brother  they 
have  taken  for  the  summer  this  historic  English  manor 
house,  famed  all  the  world  over  to  those  interested 
in  mediaeval  architecture,  as  Barwell  Moat. 

Here  he,  Daisy,  and  Nancy  Dampier  have  already 
been  settled  for  a  week ;  Gerald  only  joined  them  yes- 
terday from  Paris. 

Early  though  it  is,  the  Senator  has  already  been  up 
and  dressed  over  an  hour;  and  he  has  spent  the  time 
unprofitably,  in  glancing  over  his  diary  of  two  years 
ago,  in  conning,  that  is,  the  record  of  that  strange, 
exciting  fortnight  which  so  changed  his  own  and  his 
children's  lives. 


2IO     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

He  has  read  over  with  pain  and  distaste  the  brief 
words  in  which  he  chronicled  that  first  chance  meet- 
ing with  Nancy  Dampier.  What  excitement,  what 
adventures,  and  yes,  what  bitter  sorrow  had  that 
chance  meeting  under  the  porte  cochere  of  the  Hotel 
Saint  Ange  brought  in  its  train!  If  only  he  and 
Daisy  had  started  out  an  hour  earlier  on  that  June 
morning  just  two  years  ago  how  much  they  would 
have  been  spared. 

As  for  the  fortune  left  to  him,  Senator  Burton  is 
now  incHned  to  think  that  it  has  brought  him  less  than 
no  good.  It  has  only  provided  Gerald  with  an  excuse, 
which  to  an  American  father  is  no  excuse,  for  neglect- 
ing his  profession.  Further,  it  has  enabled  the  young 
man  to  spend  money  in  a  prodigal  fashion  over  what 
even  he  now  acknowledges  to  have  been  a  hopeless 
quest,  though  even  at  the  present  moment  detectives 
in  every  capital  in  Europe  are  watching  for  a  clue 
which  may  afford  some  notion  as  to  the  whereabouts 
of  John  Dampier. 

John  Dampier?  Grim,  relentless  spectre  who  pur- 
sues them  unceasingly,  and  from  whose  menacing, 
shadowy  presence  they  are  never  free — from  whom, 
so  the  Senator  has  now  despairingly  come  to  believe, 
they  never,  never  will  be  free.  .  .  . 

He  had  stopped  his  diary  abruptly  on  the  eve- 
ning of  that  now  far-off  day  when  his  eyes  had  been 
so  rudely  opened  to  his  son's  state  of  mind  and  heart. 
But  though  he  has  no  written  record  to  guide  him  the 


THE  END   OF  HER  HONEYMOON     211 

Senator  finds  it  only  too  easy,  on  this  beautiful  June 
morning,  to  go  back,  in  dreary  retrospective,  over 
these  two  long  years. 

Gerald  had  not  found  it  possible  to  keep  his  rash 
vow;  there  had  come  a  day  when  he  had  had  to  go 
back  to  America — indeed,  he  has  been  home  three 
times.  But  those  brief  visits  of  his  son  to  his  own 
country  brought  the  father  no  comfort,  for  each  time 
Gerald  left  behind  him  in  Europe  not  only  his  heart, 
but  everything  else  that  matters  to  a  man — his  in- 
terests, his  longings,  his  hopes. 

Small  wonder  that  in  time  Senator  Burton  and 
Daisy  had  also  fallen  into  the  way  of  spending  nearly 
the  whole  of  the  Senator's  spare  time  in  Europe,  and 
with  Nancy  Dampier. 

Nancy?  The  mind  of  the  watcher  by  the  window 
turns  to  her  too,  as  he  visions  the  slender,  graceful 
figure  now  pacing  slowly  by  his  son's  side. 

Is  it  unreasonable  that,  gradually  withdrawing  her- 
self from  her  old  friends,  those  friends  who  did  not 
believe  that  Dampier  had  left  her  save  of  his  own 
free  will,  Nancy  should  cling  closer  and  closer  to 
her  new  friends?  No,  not  at  all  unreasonable,  but, 
from  the  Senator's  point  of  view,  very  unfortunate. 
Daisy  and  Nancy  are  now  like  sisters,  and  to  the 
Senator  himself  she  shows  the  loving  deference,  the 
aflfection  of  a  daughter,  but  with  regard  to  the  all- 
important  point  of  her  relations  to  Gerald,  none  of 
them  know  the  truth — indeed,  it  may  be  doubted  if 
she  knows  it  herself. 


212     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

But  the  situation  gets  more  difficult,  more  strained 
every  month,  every  week,  ahnost  every  day.  Sen- 
ator Burton  feels  that  the  time  has  come  when  some- 
thing must  be  done  to  end  it — one  way  or  the  other 
— and  the  day  before  yesterday  he  sought  out  Mr. 
Stephens,  now  one  of  his  closest  friends  and  advisers, 
in  order  that  they  might  confer  together  on  the  mat- 
ter. As  he  stands  there  looking  down  at  the  two 
figures  walking  across  the  dewy  grass,  he  remembers 
with  a  sense  of  boding  fear  the  conversation  with 
Nancy's  lawyer. 

"There's  nothing  to  be  done,  my  poor  friend,  noth- 
ing at  all!  Our  English  marriage  laws  are  perfectly 
clear,  and  though  this  is  a  very,  very  hard  case,  I  for 
my  part  have  no  wish  to  see  them  altered." 

And  the  Senator  had  answered  with  heat,  "I  can- 
not follow  you  there  at  all!  The  law  which  ties  a 
living  woman  to  a  man  who  may  be  dead,  nay,  prob- 
ably is  dead,  is  a  monstrous  law." 

And  Mr.  Stephens  had  answered  very  quietly, 
"What  if  John  Dampier  be  alive?" 

"And  is  this  all  I  can  tell  my  poor  son?" 

And  then  it  was  that  Mr.  Stephens,  looking  at  him 
doubtfully,  had  answered,  "Well  no,  for  there  is  a 
way  out.  It  is  not  a  good  way — I  doubt  if  it  is  a  right 
way — but  still  it  is  a  way.  It  is  open  to  poor  little 
Nancy  to  go  to  America,  to  become  naturalized  there, 
and  then  to  divorce  her  husband,  in  one  of  your 
States,  for  desertion.    The  divorce  so  obtained  would 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     213 

be  no  divorce  in  England,  but  many  Englishmen  and 
Englishwomen  have  taken  that  course  as  a  last  re- 
sort  "    He  had  waited  a  moment,  and  then  added, 

"I  doubt,  however,  very,  very  much  if  Nancy  would 
consent  to  do  such  a  thing,  even  if  she  reciprocates — 
which  is  by  no  means  sure — your  son's — er — feeling 
for  her." 

"Feeling?"  Senator  Burton's  voice  had  broken, 
and  then  he  had  cried  out  fiercely,  "Why  use  such  an 
ambiguous  word,  when  we  both  know  that  Gerald  is 
killing  himself  for  love  of  her — and  giving  up  the 
finest  career  ever  opened  to  a  man?  If  Mrs.  Dam- 
pier  does  not  reciprocate  what  you  choose  to  call  his 
'feeling'  for  her,  then  she  is  the  coldest  and  most 
ungrateful  of  women!" 

"I  don't  think  she  is  either  the  one  or  the  other," 
had  observed  Mr.  Stephens  mildly;  and  he  had 
added  under  his  breath,  "It  would  be  the  better  for 

her  if  she  were Believe  me  the  only  way  to  force 

her  to  consider  the  expedient  I  have  suggested " 

he  had  hesitated  as  if  rather  ashamed  of  what  he  was 
about  to  say,  "would  be  for  Gerald  to  tell  her  the 
search  for  Mr.  Dampier  must  now  end — and  that 
the  time  has  come  when  he  must  go  back  to  America 
— and  work." 

Small  wonder  that  Senator  Burton  found  it  hard 
to  sleep  last  night,  small  wonder  he  has  risen  so  early. 
He  knows  that  his  son  is  going  to  speak  to  Nancy,  to 
tell  her  what  Mr.  Stephens  has  suggested  she  should 


214     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

do,  and  he  suspects  that  now,  at  this  very  moment, 
the  decisive  conversation  may  be  taking  place. 


II 

Though  unconscious  that  anxious,  yearning  eyes  are 
following  them,  both  Nancy  Dampier  and  Gerald 
Burton  feel  an  instinctive  desire  to  get  away  from  the 
house,  and  as  far  as  may  be  from  possible  eavesdrop- 
pers. They  walk  across  the  stretch  of  lawn  which 
separates  the  moat  from  the  gardens  in  a  constrained 
silence,  she  following  rather  than  guiding  her  com- 
panion. 

But  as  if  this  charming  old-world  plesaunce  were 
quite  famihar  to  him,  Gerald  goes  straight  on,  down 
a  grass  path  ending  in  what  appears  to  be  a  high 
impenetrable  wall  of  yew,  and  Nancy,  surprised, 
then  sees  that  a  narrow,  shaft-like  way  leads  straight 
through  the  green  leafy  depths. 

"Why,  Gerald?"  she  says  a  little  nervously — they 
have  long  ago  abandoned  any  more  formal  mode  of 
address,  though  between  them  there  stands  ever  the 
spectre  of  poor  John  Dampier,  as  present  to  one  of 
the  two,  and  he  the  man,  as  if  the  menacing  shadow 
were  in  very  truth  a  tangible  presence.  "Why,  Ger- 
ald, where  does  this  lead?  Have  you  ever  been  here 
before?" 

And  for  the  first  time  since  they  met  the  night  be- 
fore, the  young  man  smiles.     "I  thought  I'd  like  to 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     215 

see  an  English  sunrise,  Nancy,  so  I've  been  up  a  long 
time.  I  found  a  rose  garden  through  here,  and  I 
thought  it  would  be  a  quiet  place  for  our  talk." 

It  is  strangely  dark  and  still  under  the  dense  ever- 
green arch  of  the  slanting  way  carved  through  the 
yew  hedge;  Nancy  can  only  grope  her  way  along. 
Turning  round,  Gerald  holds  out  his  strong  hands, 
and  taking  hers  in  what  seems  so  cool,  so  impersonal 
a  grasp,  he  draws  her  after  him.  And  Nancy  flushes 
in  the  half  darkness;  it  is  the  first  time  that  she  and 
Gerald  Burton  have  ever  been  alone  together  as  they 
are  alone  now,  and  that  though  they  have  met  so  very, 
very  often  in  the  last  two  years. 

Nancy  is  at  once  glad  and  sorry  when  he  suddenly 
loosens  his  grasp  of  her  hands.  The  shadowed  way 
terminates  in  a  narrow  wrought-iron  gate;  and  be- 
yond the  gate  is  the  rose  garden  of  Bar  well  Moat,  a 
tangle  of  exquisite  colouring,  jealously  guarded  and 
hidden  away  from  those  to  whom  the  more  familiar 
beauties  of  the  place  are  free. 

It  is  one  of  the  oldest  of  English  roseries,  planned 
by  some  Elizabethan  dame  who  loved  soHtude  rather 
than  the  sun.  And  if  the  roses  bloom  a  little  less 
freely  in  this  quiet,  still  enclosure  than  they  would 
do  in  greater  Hght  and  wilder  air,  this  gives  the  rosery, 
in  these  hot  June  days,  a  touch  of  austere  and  more 
fragile  beauty  than  that  to  be  seen  beyond  its  enla- 
cing yews. 

A  hundred  years  after  the  Elizabethan  lady  had 


2i6     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

designed  the  rosery  of  Barwell  Moat  a  Jacobean  dame 
had  added  to  her  rose  garden  a  fountain — one  brought 
maybe  from  Italy  or  France,  for  the  fat  stone  Cupids 
now  shaking  slender  jets  of  water  from  their  rose- 
leaved  cornucopias  are  full  of  a  roguish,  Southern 
grace. 

When  they  have  passed  through  into  this  fragrant, 
enchanted  looking  retreat,  Nancy  cries  out  in  real 
delight:  "What  an  exquisite  and  lovely  place!  How 
strange  that  Daisy  and  I  never  found  it!" 

And  then,  as  Gerald  remains  silent,  she  looks,  for 
the  first  time  this  morning,  straight  up  into  his  face, 
and  her  heart  is  filled  with  a  sudden  overwhelming 
sensation  of  suspense — and  yes,  fear,  for  there  is  the 
strangest  expression  on  the  young  man's  countenance, 
indeed  it  is  full  of  deep,  of  violent  emotion — emotion 
his  companion  finds  contagious. 

She  tells  herself  that  at  last  he  has  brought  news. 
That  if  he  did  not  tell  her  so  last  night  it  was  because 
he  wished  her  to  have  one  more  night  of  peace — of 
late  poor  Nancy's  nights  have  become  very  peaceful. 

John  Dampier?  There  was  a  time — it  now  seems 
long,  long  ago — when  Nancy  would  have  given  not 
only  her  life  but  her  very  soul  to  have  known  that 
her  husband  was  safe,  that  he  would  come  back  to 
her.  But  now?  Alas!  Alas!  Now  she  realises  with 
an  agonised  feeling  of  horror,  of  self-loathing,  that 
she  no  longer  wishes  to  hear  Gerald  Burton  say  that 
he  has  kept  his  word — that  he  has  found  Dampier. 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     217 

She  prays  God  that  nothing  of  what  she  is  feeling 
shows  in  her  face;  and  Gerald  is  far  too  moved,  far 
too  doubtful  as  to  what  he  is  to  say  to  her,  and  as  to 
the  answer  she  will  make  to  him,  to  see  that  she  looks 
in  any  way  different  from  what  she  always  does  look 
in  his  eyes — the  most  beautiful  as  well  as  the  most 
loved  and  worshipped  of  human  creatures. 

"Tell  me!"  she  gasps.  ''Tell  me,  Gerald?  What 
is  it  you  want  to  say  to  me?  Don't  keep  me  in  sus- 
pense  "  and  then,  as  he  is  still  dumb,  she  adds 

with  a  cry,  "Have  you  come  to  tell  me  that  at  last 
you  have  found  Jack?" 

And  he  pulls  himself  together  with  a  mighty  effort. 
Nancy's  words  have  rudely  dispelled  the  hopes  with 
which  his  heart  has  been  filled  ever  since  his  father 
came  to  his  room  last  night  and  told  him  what  Mr. 
Stephens  had  suggested  as  a  possible  way  out  of  the 
present,  intolerable  situation. 

"No,"  he  says  sombrely,  "no,  Nancy,  I  have 
brought  you  no  good  news,  and  I  am  beginning  to 
fear  I  never  shall." 

And  he  does  not  see  even  now  that  the  long  quiv- 
ering sigh  which  escapes  from  her  pale  lips  is  a  sigh  of 
unutterable — if  of  pained  and  shamed — relief. 

But  what  is  this  he  is  now  sa5ang,  in  a  voice  which 
is  so  unsteady,  so  oddly  unlike  his  own? 

"I  think — God  forgive  me  for  thinking  so  if  I  am 
wrong — that  I  have  always  been  right,  Nancy,  that 
your  husband  is  dead — that  he  was  killed  two  years 
ago,  the  night  he  disappeared " 


2i8     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

She  bends  her  head.  Yes,  she  too  believes  that, 
though  there  was  a  time  when  she  fought,  with  des- 
perate strength,  against  the  belief. 

He  goes  on  breathlessly,  hoarsely,  aware  that  he  is 
making  what  Mr.  Stephens  would  call  a  bad  job  of 
it  all:  "I  am  now  beginning  to  doubt  whether  we 
shall  ever  discover  the  truth  as  to  what  did  happen. 
His  body  may  still  lie  concealed  somewhere  in  the 
H6tel  Saint  Ange,  and  if  that  is  so,  there's  but  small 
chance  indeed  that  we  shall  ever,  ever  learn  the  truth." 

And  again  she  bends  her  head. 

"I  fear  the  time  is  come,  Nancy,  when  the  search 
must  be  given  up." 

He  utters  the  fateful  words  very  quietly,  very  gen- 
tly, but  even  so  she  feels  a  pang  of  startled  fear.  Does 
that  mean — yes,  of  course  it  must  mean,  that  Gerald 
is  going  away,  back  to  America? 

A  feeling  of  dreadful  desolation  fills  her  heart. 
"Yes,"  she  says  in  a  low  tone,  "I  think  you  are  right. 
I  think  the  search  should  be  given  up." 

She  would  like  to  utter  words  of  thanks,  the  con- 
ventional words  of  gratitude  she  has  uttered  innu- 
merable times  in  the  last  two  years — but  now  they 
stick  in  her  throat. 

Tears  smart  into  her  eyes,  stifled  sobs  burst  from 
her  lips. 

And  Gerald  again  misunderstands — misunderstands 
her  tears,  the  sobs  which  tear  and  shake  her  slender 
body.    But  he  is  only  too  familiar  with  the  feeling 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     219 

which  now  grips  him— the  feeling  that  he  must  rush 
forward  and  take  her  in  his  arms.  It  has  never 
gripped  him  quite  as  strongly  as  it  does  now;  and 
so  he  steps  abruptly  back,  and  puts  more  of  the  stone 
rim  of  the  fountain  between  himself  and  that  forlorn 
little  figure. 

''Nancy?"  he  cries.  *'I  was  a  brute  to  say  that. 
Of  course  I  will  go  on!  Of  course  we  won't  give  up 
hope!  It's  natural  that  I  should  sometimes  become 
disheartened." 

He  is  telling  himself  resolutely  that  never,  never 
will  he  propose  to  her  the  plan  his  father  revealed  to 
him  last  night.  How  little  either  his  father  or  Mr. 
Stephens  had  understood  the  relation  between  him- 
self and  Nancy  if  they  supposed  that  he,  of  all  men, 
could  make  to  her  such  a  suggestion. 

And  then  he  suddenly  sees  in  Nancy's  sensitive 
face,  in  her  large  blue  eyes  that  unconscious  beckon- 
ing, calling  look  every  lover  longs  to  see  in  the  face 
of  his  beloved.  .  .  . 

They  each  instinctively  move  towards  the  other, 
and  in  a  flash  Nancy  is  in  his  arms  and  he  is  holding 
her  strained  to  his  heart,  while  his  lips  seek,  find, 
cling  to  her  sweet,  tremulous  mouth. 

But  the  moment  of  rapture,  of  almost  unendurable 
bhss  is  short  indeed,  for  suddenly  he  feels  her  shrink- 
ing from  him,  and  though  for  yet  another  moment  he 
holds  her  against  her  will,  the  struggle  soon  ends,  and 
he  releases  her,  feeling  what  he  has  never  yet  felt 


2  20    THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

when  with  her,  that  is,  bewildered,  hurt,  and  yes, 
angry. 

And  then,  when  she  sees  that  new  alien  glance  of 
anger  in  eyes  which  have  never  looked  at  her  but 
kindly,  Nancy  feels  a  dreadful  pang  of  pain,  as  well 
as  of  shamed  distress.  She  creeps  up  nearer  to  him, 
and  puts  her  hand  imploringly  on  his  arm — that  arm 
which  a  moment  ago  held  her  so  closely  to  him,  but 
which  now  hangs,  apparently  nerveless,  by  his  side. 

"Gerald!"  she  whispers  imploringly.  "Don't  be 
angry  with  me,"  and  her  voice  drops  still  lower  as 
she  adds  piteously,  "You  see,  I  knew  we  were  doing 
wrong.     I — I  felt  wicked." 

And  then,  as  he  still  makes  no  answer,  she  grows 
more  keenly  distressed.  "Gerald?"  she  says  again. 
"You  may  kiss  me  if  you  like."  And  as  he  only 
looks  down  at  her,  taking  no  advantage  of  the  reluc- 
tant permission,  she  falters  out  the  ill-chosen  words, 
"Don't  you  know  how  grateful  I  am  to  you?" 

And  then,  stung  past  endurance,  he  turns  on  her 
savagely: — "Does  that  mean  that  I  have  bought  the 
right  to  kiss  you?" 

But  as,  at  this,  she  bursts  into  bitter  tears,  he  again 
takes  her  in  his  arms,  and  he  does  kiss  her,  violently, 
passionately,  hungrily.     He  is  only  a  man  after  all. 

But  alas!  These  other  kisses  leave  behind  them  a 
bitter  taste.  They  lack  the  wild,  exquisite  flavour  of 
the  first. 

At  last  he  tells  her,  haltingly,  slowly,  of  Mr.  Ste- 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     221 

phens'  suggestion,  but  carefully  as  he  chooses  his 
words  he  feels  her  shrinking,  wincing  at  the  images 
they  conjure  up;  and  he  tells  himself  with  impatient 
self-reproach  that  he  has  been  too  quick,  too  abrupt — 
that  he  ought  to  have  allowed  the  notion  to  sink  into 
her  mind  slowly,  that  he  should  have  made  Daisy,  or 
even  his  father,  be  his  ambassador. 

"I  couldn't  do  that!"  she  whispers  at  last,  and  he 
sees  that  she  has  turned  very  white.  "I  don't  think 
I  could  ever  do  that!  Think  how  awful  it  would  be 
if — if  after  I  had  done  such  a  thing  I  found  that  poor 
Jack  was  not  dead?  Some  time  ago — I  have  never 
told  you  of  this — some  friend,  meaning  to  be  kind, 
sent  me  a  cutting  from  a  paper  telling  of  a  foreigner 
who  had  been  taken  up  for  mad  in  Italy,  and  confined 
in  a  lunatic  asylum  for  years  and  years!  You  don't 
know  how  that  story  haunted  me.  It  haunted  me 
for  weeks.  You  wouldn't  like  me  to  do  anything  I 
thought  wrong,  Gerald?" 

"No,"  he  says  moodily.  "No,  Nancy — I  will 
never  ask  you  to  do  anything  you  think  wrong."  He 
adds  with  an  effort,  "I  told  my  father  last  night  that 
I  doubted  if  you  would  ever  consent  to  such  a  thing." 

And  then  she  asks  an  imprudent  question: — "And 
what  did  he  say  then?"  she  says  in  a  troubled,  un- 
happy voice. 

"D'you  really  want  to  know  what  he  said?" 

She  creeps  a  little  nearer  to  him,  she  even  takes  his 
hand.    "Yes,  Gerald.    Tell  me." 


222     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

"He  said  that  if  you  wouldn't  consent  to  do  some 
such  thing,  why  then  I  should  be  doing  wrong  to  stay 
in  Europe.  He  said — I  little  knew  how  true  it  was — 
that  soon  you  would  learn  that  I  loved  you,  and  that 
then — that  then  the  situation  would  become  intol- 
erable." 

*' Intolerable?"  she  repeats  in  a  low,  strained  tone. 
"Oh  no,  not  intolerable,  Gerald!  Surely  you  don't 
feel  that?" 

And  this  time  it  is  Gerald  who  winces,  who  draws 
back;  but  suddenly  his  heart  fills  up,  brims  over  with 
a  great,  an  unselfish  tenderness — for  Nancy,  gazing 
up  at  him,  looks  disappointed  as  a  child,  not  a  woman, 
looks,  when  disappointed  of  a  caress;  and  so  he  puts 
his  arms  round  her  and  kisses  her  very  gently,  very 
softly,  in  what  he  tells  himself  is  a  kind,  brotherly 
fashion.  "  You  know  I'll  do  just  whatever  you  wish," 
he  murmurs. 

And  contentedly  she  nestles  against  him.  "Oh, 
Gerald,"  she  whispers  back,  "how  good  you  are  to 
me!     Can't  we  always  be  reasonable — hke  this?" 

And  he  smiles,  a  httle  wryly.  "Why,  yes,"  he 
says,  "of  course  we  can!  And  now,  Nancy,  it's  surely 
breakfast  time.     Let's  go  back  to  the  house." 

And  Nancy,  perhaps  a  little  surprised,  a  httle 
taken  aback  at  his  sudden,  cheerful  acceptance  of  her 
point  of  view,  follows  him  through  the  dark  passage 
cut  in  the  yew  hedge.  She  supposes — perhaps  she 
even  hopes — that  before  they  emerge  into  the  sun- 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     223 

light  he  will  turn  and  again  kiss  her  in  the  reasonable, 
tender  way  he  did  just  now. 

But  Gerald  does  not  even  turn  round  and  grasp  her 
two  hands  as  he  did  before.  He  leaves  her  to  grope 
her  way  behind  him  as  best  she  can,  and  as  they  walk 
across  the  lawn  he  talks  to  her  in  a  more  cheerful, 
indifferent  way  than  he  has  ever  done  before.  Once 
they  come  close  up  to  the  house,  however,  he  falls  into 
a  deep  silence. 

Ill 

It  is  by  the  merest  chance  that  they  stay  in  that 
afternoon,  for  it  has  been  a  long,  a  wretched  day  for 
them  all. 

Senator  Burton  and  his  daughter  are  consumed 
with  anxiety,  with  a  desire  to  know  what  has  taken 
place,  but  all  they  can  see  is  that  Gerald  and  Nancy 
both  look  restless,  miserable,  and  ill  at  ease  with  one 
another.  Daisy  further  suspects  that  Nancy  is  avoid- 
ing Gerald,  and  the  suspicion  makes  her  feel  anxious 
and  uncomfortable. 

As  for  the  Senator,  he  begins  to  feel  that  he  hates 
this  beautiful  old  house  and  its  lovely  gardens;  he 
has  never  seen  Gerald  look  as  unhappy  anywhere  as 
he  looks  here. 

At  last  he  seeks  his  son  out,  and,  in  a  sense,  forces 
his  confidence.     "Well,  my  boy?" 

"Well,  father,  she  doesn't  feel  she  can  do  it!    She 


224     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

thinks  that  D ampler  may  be  alive  after  all.  If  you 
don't  mind  I'd  rather  not  talk  about  her  just  now." 

And  then  the  Senator  tells  himself,  for  the  hun- 
dredth time  in  the  last  two  years,  that  they  have  now 
come  to  the  breaking  point — that  if  Nancy  will  not 
take  the  only  reasonable  course  open  to  her,  then  that 
Gerald  must  be  nerved  to  make,  as  men  have  so  often 
had  to  make,  the  great  renouncement.  To  go  on  as 
he  is  now  doing  is  not  only  wrong  as  regards  himself, 
it  is  wrong  as  regards  his  sister  Daisy. 

There  is  a  man  in  America  who  loves  Daisy — a 
man  too  of  whom  the  Senator  approves  as  much  as 
he  can  of  anyone  who  is  anxious  to  take  his  daughter 
from  him.  And  Daisy,  were  her  heart  only  at  leisure, 
might  respond;  but  alas!  her  heart  is  not  at  leisure, 
it  is  wholly  absorbed  in  the  affairs  of  her  brother  and 
of  her  friend. 

At  last  the  high  ritual  of  English  afternoon  tea 
brings  them  out  all  together  on  the  lawn  in  front  of 
the  house. 

Deferentially  consulted  by  the  solemn-faced,  suave- 
mannered  butler,  who  seems  as  much  part  of  Barwell 
Moat  as  do  the  gabled  dormer  windows,  Daisy  Burton 
decides  that  tea  is  to  be  set  out  wherever  it  generally 
is  set  out  by  the  owners  of  the  house.  Weightily  she 
is  informed  that  "her  ladyship"  has  tea  served  some- 
times in  that  part  of  the  garden  which  is  called  the 
rosery,  sometimes  on  the  front  lawn,  and  the  butler 


THE  END   OF  HER  HONEYMOON     225 

adds  the  cryptic  information,  "  according  as  to  whether 
her  ladyship  desires  to  see  visitors  or  not." 

Daisy  does  not  quite  see  what  difference  the  fact 
of  tea  being  served  in  one  place  or  another  can  make 
to  apocryphal  visitors,  so,  with  what  cheerfulness  she 
can  muster,  she  asks  the  others  which  they  would 
prefer.  And  at  once,  a  httle  to  her  surprise,  Nancy 
and  Gerald  answer  simultaneously,  "Oh,  let  us  have 
tea  on  the  lawn,  not — not  in  the  rosery!" 

And  it  is  there,  in  front  of  the  house,  that  within 
a  very  few  minutes  they  are  all  gathered  together, 
and  for  the  first  time  that  day  Senator  Burton's 
heart  lightens  a  httle. 

He  is  amused  at  the  sight  of  those  three  men — the 
butler  and  his  two  footmen  sateUites — gravely  ma- 
king their  elaborate  preparations.  Chairs  are  brought 
out,  piles  of  cushions  are  flung  about  in  bounteous 
profusion,  even  two  hammocks  are  slung  up — all  in 
an  incredibly  short  space  of  time:  and  the  American 
tenant  of  Barwell  Moat  tells  himself  that  the  scene 
before  him  might  be  taken  from  one  of  the  stories  of 
his  favourite  British  novehst,  good  old  Anthony  Trol- 
lope. 

Ah  me!  How  happy  they  all  might  be  this  after- 
noon were  it  not  for  the  ever  present  unspoken  hopes 
and  fears  which  fill  their  hearts ! 

Daisy  sits  down  behind  the  tea-table;  and  the  cloud 
lifts  a  Httle  from  Gerald's  stern,  set  face;  the  three 
young  people  even  laugh  and  joke  a  httle  together. 


226    THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

The  Senator  glances  at  Nancy  D ampler;  she  is 
looking  very  lovely  this  afternoon,  but  her  face  is 
flushed,  her  manner  is  restless,  agitated,  she  looks 
what  he  has  never  seen  her  look  till  to-day,  thor- 
oughly ill  at  ease,  and  yet,  yes,  certainly  less  listless, 
more  alive  than  she  looked  yesterday — before  Ger- 
ald's arrival. 

What  strange  creatures  women  are!  The  Senator 
does  not  exactly  disapprove  of  Nancy's  decision,  but 
he  regrets  it  bitterly.  If  only  she  would  throw  in 
her  lot  with  Gerald — come  to  America,  her  mind 
made  up  never  to  return  to  Europe  again,  why  then 
even  now  they  might  all  be  happy. 

But  her  face,  soft  though  it  be  in  repose,  is  not 
that  of  a  weak  woman;  it  is  that  of  one  who,  think- 
ing she  knows  what  should  be  her  duty,  will  be  faith- 
ful to  it;  and  it  is  also  the  face  of  a  woman  reserved 
in  the  expression  of  her  feelings.  Senator  Burton 
cannot  make  up  his  mind  whether  Nancy  realises 
Gerald's  measureless,  generous  devotion.  Is  she  even 
aware  of  all  that  he  has  sacrificed  for  her?  Daisy 
says  yes — Daisy  declares  that  Nancy  "cares"  for 
Gerald — but  then  Daisy  herself  is  open-hearted  and 
generous  Hke  her  brother. 

And  while  these  painful  thoughts,  these  half- 
formed  questions  and  answers,  weave  in  and  out 
through  Senator  Burton's  brain,  there  suddenly  falls 
a  loud  grinding  sound  on  his  ears,  and  a  motor-car 
sweeps  into  view. 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     227 

Now,  at  last,  Daisy  Burton  understands  the  but- 
ler's cryptic  remark!  Here,  in  front  of  the  house 
escape  from  visitors  is,  of  course,  impossible.  She 
feels  a  pang  of  annoyance  at  her  own  stupidity  for 
not  having  understood,  but  there  is  no  help  for  it — ■ 
and  very  soon  three  people,  a  middle-aged  lady  and 
two  gentlemen,  are  advancing  over  the  green  sward. 

The  Senator  and  his  daughter  rise,  and  walk  for- 
ward to  meet  them.  Gerald  and  Nancy  remain  be- 
hind. Indeed  the  young  man  hardly  sees  the  stran- 
gers; he  is  only  conscious  of  a  deep  feeling  of  reUef 
that  the  solicitous  eyes  of  his  father  and  sister  are 
withdrawn  from  him  and  Nancy. 

Since  this  morning  he  has  been  in  a  strange  state 
of  alternating  rapture  and  despair.  He  feels  as  if  he 
and  Nancy,  having  just  found  one  another,  are  now 
doomed  to  part.  Ever  since  he  held  her  in  his  arms 
he  has  ached  with  loneHness  and  with  thwarted  long- 
ing; during  the  whole  of  this  long  day  Nancy  has 
eluded  him;  not  for  a  single  moment  have  they  been 
alone  together.  And  now  all  his  good  resolutions — 
the  resolutions  which  stood  him  in  such  good  stead 
in  that  dark,  leafy  tunnel — have  vanished.  He  now 
faces  the  fact  that  they  cannot  hope,  when  once  more 
alone  and  heart  to  heart,  to  be  what  Nancy  calls 
"reasonable."  .  .  . 

Suddenly  he  comes  back  to  the  drab  realities  of 
everyday  life.  His  father  is  introducing  him  to  the 
visitors — first   to   the   lady:   "Mrs.  Arbuthnot — my 


228     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

son,  Gerald  Burton.  Mrs.  Dampier — Mrs.  Arbuth- 
not."  And  then  to  the  two  men,  Mr.  Arbuthnot  and 
a  Mr.  Dallas. 

There  is  a  quick  interchange  of  talk.  The  new- 
comers are  explaining  who  and  what  they  are.  Mr. 
Robert  Arbuthnot  is  a  retired  Anglo-Indian  official, 
and  he  and  his  wife  have  now  hved  for  two  years  in 
the  dower  house  which  forms  part  of  the  Barwell  Moat 
estate. 

"I  should  not  have  called  quite  so  soon  had  it  not 
been  that  our  friend,  Mr.  Dallas,  is  only  staying  with 
us  for  two  or  three  days,  and  he  is  most  anxious  to 
meet  you,  Mr.  Senator.  Mr.  Dallas  is  one  of  the 
Officers  of  Health  for  the  Port  of  London.  He  read 
some  years  ago"  — she  turns  smilingly  to  the  gentle- 
man in  question — "a  very  interesting  pamphlet  with 
which  you  seem  to  have  been  in  some  way  concerned, 
about  the  Port  of  New  York." 

The  Senator  is  flattered  to  find  how  well  Mr.  Dallas 
remembers  that  old  report  of  which  he  was  one  of  the 
signatories.  For  a  moment  he  forgets  his  troubles; 
and  the  younger  people — Mrs.  Arbuthnot  also — re- 
main silent  while  these  three  men,  who  have  each 
had  a  considerable  experience  of  great  affairs,  begin 
talking  of  the  problems  which  face  those  who  have 
vast  masses  of  human  beings  to  consider  and  legis- 
late for. 

Mr.  Dallas  talks  the  most;  he  is  one  of  those  cheer- 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     229 

fill,  eager  Englishmen  who  like  the  sound  of  their  own 
voices:  he  is  also  one  of  those  fortunate  people  who 
take  an  intense  interest  in  the  work  they  are  set  to 
do.  In  Mr.  Dallas's  ears  there  is  no  pleasanter  sound- 
ing word  than  the  word  "sanitation." 

"Ah,"  he  says,  turning  smilingly  to  the  Senator, 
"how  I  envy  my  New  York  colleagues!  They  have 
plenary  powers.    They  are  real  autocrats!" 

"They  would  be  but  for  our  press,"  answers  the 
Senator.  "I  wonder  if  you  heard  anything  of  the 
scrape  Dr.  Cranebrook  got  into  last  year?" 

"Of  course  I  did!  I  heard  all  about  it,  and  I  felt 
very  sorry  for  him.     But  our  London  press  is  getting 

almost  as   bad!     Government   by  newspaper " 

he  shakes  his  head  expressively.  "And  my  friend 
Arbuthnot  tells  me  that  it's  becoming  really  serious 
in  India;  there  the  native  press  is  getting  more  and 
more  power.  Ah  well!  They  do  those  things  bet- 
ter in  France. " 

And  then  Mrs.  Arbuthnot's  voice  is  heard  at  last. 
"My  husband  and  Mr.  Dallas  have  only  just  come 
back  from  Paris,  Miss  Burton.  Mr.  Dallas  went 
over  on  business,  and  my  husband  accompanied  him. 
They  had  a  most  interesting  time:  they  spent  a  whole 
day  at  the  Prefecture  of  Police  with  the  Prefect  him- 
self  " 

She  stops  speaking,  and  wonders  a  little  why  a  sud- 
den silence  has  fallen  over  the  whole  group  of  these 


230     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

pleasant  Americans — for  she  takes  Nancy  to  be  an 
American  too. 

But  the  sudden  silence — so  deep,  so  absolute  that 
it  reminds  Mrs.  Arbuthnot  of  the  old  saying  that 
when  such  a  stillness  falls  on  any  company  some- 
one must  be  walking  over  their  graves — is  suddenly 
broken. 

Mr.  Dallas  jumps  to  his  feet.  He  is  one  of  those 
men  who  never  like  sitting  still  very  long.  "May  I 
have  another  lump  of  sugar,  Miss  Burton?  We  were 
speaking  of  Paris, — talk  of  muzzling  the  press,  they 
know  how  to  muzzle  their  press  in  grim  earnest  in 
Paris!  Talk  of  suppressing  the  truth,  they  don't 
even  begin  to  tell  the  truth  there.  The  Tsar  of  Rus- 
sia as  an  autocrat  isn't  in  it  with  the  Paris  Prefect  of 
PoUce!" 

And  two  of  his  listeners  say  drearily  to  themselves 
that  Mr.  Dallas  is  a  very  ignorant  man  after  all.  He 
is  evidently  one  of  the  many  fooUsh  people  who 
believe  the  French  police  omnipotent. 

But  the  Englishman  goes  happily  on,  quite  uncon- 
scious that  he  is  treading  on  what  has  become  for- 
bidden ground  in  the  Burton  family  circle.  "The 
present  man's  name  is  Beaucourt,  a  very  pleasant 
fellow !  He  told  me  some  astounding  stories.  I  won- 
der if  you'd  like  to  hear  the  one  which  struck  me 
most?" 

He  looks  round,  pleased  at  their  attention,  at  the 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     231 

silence  which  has  again  fallen  on  them  all,  and  which 
he  naturally  takes  for  consent. 

Eagerly  he  begins:  "It  was  two  years  ago,  at  the 
height  of  their  Exhibition  season,  and  of  course  Paris 
was  crammed — every  house  full,  from  cellar  to  attic! 
Monsieur  Beaucourt  tells  me  that  there  were  more 
than  five  hundred  thousand  strangers  in  the  city  for 
whose  safety,  and  incidentally  for  whose  health,  he 
was  responsible!" 

He  waits  a  moment,  that  thought  naturally  im- 
presses him  more  than  it  does  his  audience. 

"Well,  into  that  gay  maelstrom  there  suddenly  ar- 
rived a  couple  of  young  foreigners.  They  were  well- 
to-do,  and  what  impressed  the  little  story  particularly 
on  Monsieur  Beaucourt's  mind  was  the  fact  that  they 
were  on  their  honeymoon — you  know  how  sentimen- 
tal the  French  are!" 

Mr.  Dallas  looks  round.  They  are  all  gazing  at 
him  with  upturned  faces — never  had  he  a  more  polite, 
a  more  attentive  circle  of  Hsteners.  There  is,  how- 
ever, one  exception:  his  old  friend,  Mr.  Arbuthnot, 
puts  his  hand  up  to  conceal  a  yawn;  he  has  heard  the 
story  before. 

"Where  was  I?  Oh,  yes.  Well,  these  young  peo- 
ple— Monsieur  Beaucourt  thinks  they  were  Amer- 
icans^had  gone  to  Italy  for  their  honeymoon,  and 
they  were  ending  up  in  Paris,  They  arrived  late 
at  night — I  think  from  Marseilles — and  most  prov- 


232     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

identially  they  were  put  on  different  floors  in  the 
hotel  they  had  chosen  in  the  Latin  Quarter.  Well, 
that  very  night " 

Mr.  Dallas  looks  round  him  triumphantly.  He 
does  not  exactly  smile,  for  what  he  is  going  to  say  is 
really  rather  dreadful,  but  he  has  the  eager,  pleased 
look  which  all  good  story-tellers  have  when  they 
have  come  to  the  point  of  their  story. 

"I  don't  beHeve  that  one  man  in  a  million  would 
guess  what  happened!"  He  looks  round  him  again, 
and  has  time  to  note  complacently  that  the  son  of 
his  host,  who  has  risen,  and  whose  hands  grip  the 
back  of  the  chair  from  which  he  has  risen,  is  staring, 
fascinated,  across  at  him. 

"A  very,  very  strange  and  terrible  thing  befell 
this  young  couple.  That  first  night  of  their  stay  in 
Paris,  between  two  and  three  the  bridegroom  devel- 
oped plague!  Monsieur  Beaucourt  tells  me  that  the 
poor  fellow  behaved  with  the  greatest  presence  of 
mind;  although  he  cannot  of  course  have  known  what 
exactly  was  the  matter  with  him,  he  gave  orders  that 
his  wife  was  not  to  be  disturbed,  and  that  the  hotel 
people  were  to  send  for  a  doctor  at  once.  Luckily 
there  was  a  medical  man  living  in  the  same  street; 
he  leapt  on  the  dreadful  truth,  sent  for  an  ambulance, 
and  within  less  than  half  an  hour  of  the  poor  fellow's 
seizure  he  was  whisked  away  to  the  nearest  public 
hospital,  where  he  died  five  hours  later." 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     233 

Mr.  Dallas  waits  a  moment,  he  is  a  little  disap- 
pointed that  no  one  speaks,  and  he  hurries  on: — 

"And  now  comes  the  point  of  my  story!  Mon- 
sieur Beaucourt  assures  me  that  the  fact  was  kept 
absolutely  secret.  He  told  me  that  had  it  leaked  out 
it  might  have  half  emptied  Paris.  French  people 
have  a  perfect  terror  of  what  they  call  Ha  Peste.'  But 
not  a  whisper  of  the  truth  got  about,  and  that  though 
a  considerable  number  of  people  had  to  know,  inclu- 
ding many  of  the  officials  connected  with  the  Prefec- 
ture of  Police.  The  Prefect  showed  me  the  poor 
fellow's  watch  and  bunch  of  seals,  the  only  things,  of 
course,  that  they  were  able  to  keep;  he  really  spoke 
very  nicely,  very  movingly  about  it " 

And  then,  at  last,  the  speaker  stops  abruptly.  He 
has  seen  his  host's  son  reel  a  little,  sway  as  does  a 
man  who  is  drunk,  and  then  fall  heavily  to  the 
ground. 

It  is  hours  later.  The  sun  has  long  set.  Gerald 
opens  his  eyes;  and  then  he  shuts  them  again,  for  he 
wants  to  go  on  dreaming.  He  is  vaguely  aware  that 
he  is  lying  in  the  magnificent  Jacobean  four-post  bed 
which  he  had  been  far  too  miserable,  too  agitated  to 
notice  when  his  father  had  brought  him  up  the  night 
before.  But  now  the  restful  beauty  of  the  spacious 
room,  the  fantastic  old  coloured  maps  lining  the  walls, 
affect  him  agreeably,  soothe  his  tired  mind  and  brain. 


234     THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON 

During  that  dreamy  moment  of  half-waking  he  has 
seen  in  the  shadowed  room,  for  the  Hghts  are  heavily 
shaded,  the  figures  of  his  father  and  of  Daisy;  he  now 
hears  his  father's  whisper: — "The  doctor  says  he  is 
only  suffering  from  shock,  but  that  when  he  wakes 
he  must  be  kept  very  quiet." 

And  Daisy's  clear,  low  voice,  "Oh,  yes,  father. 
When  he  opens  his  eyes  perhaps  we'd  better  leave 
him  with  Nancy." 

Nancy?  Then  Nancy  really  is  here,  close  to  him, 
sitting  on  a  low  chair  by  the  side  of  the  bed.  And 
when  he  opened  his  eyes  just  now  she  really  had  bent 
her  dear  head  forward  and  laid  her  soft  lips  on  his 
hand.     It  was  no  dream — no  dream 

And  then  there  comes  over  him  an  overwhelming 
rush  of  mingled  feehngs  and  emotions.  He  tries  to 
remember  what  it  was  that  had  happened  this  after- 
noon— he  sees  the  active,  restless  figure  of  the  Eng- 
hshman  dancing  queerly  up  and  down  as  it  had 
seemed  to  dance  just  before  he,  Gerald,  fell,  and 
he  feels  again  the  horrible  wish  to  laugh  which 
had  seized  him  when  that  dancing  figure  had  said 
something  about  Beaucourt  having  spoken  "very 
nicely " 

"Curse  Beaucourt!  Such  a  fiend  is  only  fit  for  the 
lowest  depths  of  Hell." 

Again  he  opens  his  eyes.  Did  he  say  the  ugly 
words  aloud?    He  thinks  not,  he  hopes  not,  for  Daisy 


THE  END  OF  HER  HONEYMOON     235 

only  takes  their  father's  hand  in  hers  and  leads  him 
from  the  room. 

"Nancy?"  he  says,  trying  to  turn  towards  her. 
"Do  we  know  the  truth  now?  Is  my  search  at  an 
end?" 

"Yes,"  she  whispers.  "We  know  the  truth  now 
— my  dearest.     Your  search  is  at  an  end." 

And  as  she  gets  up  and  bends  over  him,  he  feels  her 
tears  dropping  on  his  face. 


THE    END 


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